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Copyright, 1909 

30 b Small, /HbaBnarD & Compans 

(inoobpoeated) 


Entered at Stationers' Hall 



THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 



CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Flower of Flame ... 1 

II A Dime and Delight ... 22 

III A Shameful Thing .... 48 

IV The Shiver in the Sunshine . 57 

V A Matter of Money ... 77 

VI The Song of the Night . . 96 

VII The Tough Lot 113 


VIII The Question 131 

IX The Shadow^ on the Bayou . 154 

X The Man who had no Head . 178 

XI No Answer . 190 

XII The Words under the Hat . 206 

XIH A Bargain 224 

XIV Days of Purple and Gold . . 243 

XV The Little Talk 260 

XVI The Bitter Word .... 276 

XVH The Day of Discovery . . . 290 

XVIH The Message to M. Moise . 300 

XIX The Flight 317 

XX The Answer 331 



MARIE OF ARCADY 



MARIE OF ARCADY 

CHAPTER ONE 

THE FLOWER OF FLAME 

Bayou Bienvieu was very old; older 
than its pines and willows; older than 
its bogs and marshes; old but not aged. 
Into the eyes of the girl who knelt 
down beside it the Bayou smiled a warm, 
brown welcome even as it had smiled 
into the eyes of the old exile who many, 
many years ago had stooped to drink 
of its sweet waters. 

Bayou Bienvieu smiled, but, eh bien! 
the girl did not smile. Nor did she 
bathe her parched face and panting lips. 
Anxiously, hurriedly she washed her 
hands again and again until the rattling 
cry of a kingfisher, startlingly loud in 
that noonday stillness, sent her scurry- 
1 [ 1 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


ing up the bayou bank and out upon 
the hot white road. 

The Bayou sighed for her going. 
Where the old man had stooped to 
drink there he had stayed, and the 
basin of the Bayou had become a ’Cajan 
settlement. A land of small farms and 
large loves, and of loyalty to love. 
French peasant had been that old man, 
and French peasants the band he led — 
one and all exiled from Arcadia by act 
of England. 

Bayou Bienvieu knew about that, — 
had indeed been told the story over and 
over during the hundred and fifty-five 
pleasant years that had passed since that 
day. But this girl who had no smile 
to give to its smiling, who had no thirst 
for its clear waters, was she, too, an 
exile? And if so, by act of whom? 
The Bayou went wistfully, wondering 
through all its shadowy pools and shin- 
ing spaces. 


[ 2 ] 


The Flower of Flame 

And was it that the girl also went 
wistfully? But no, it would seem that 
she went in fear, she hurried so — not 
as one in haste, but as one who fled — 
hurried, hurried along the white track 
that ran gleaming through wide levels 
of glittering green. The road was 
empty, for no ’Cajan would have rid- 
den a horse or driven a team through 
that terrible heat, empty of all things 
save the hurrying girl. She, so slim and 
young, did not seem to feel the heat. 
The hot white sand burnt her bare feet; 
the hot red sun beat upon her bent head. 
The sweat ran down from her thickly 
curling hair through the dust upon her 
cheeks to the dryness of her lips, and 
still she hurried. The flats lay down 
behind her, the hills began to rise, and 
the pines drew nearer, nearer, until one 
big fellow flung his shadow boldly across 
the road before the hurrying girl. It 
was the short, black shadow of noon, — an 
[ 3 ] 


Makie of Arcady 


ugly shadow, squat and bent like an old 
man bearing a bundle. The girl started 
back from it as from a thing of terror, 
sprang into a little, well-worn path that 
ran up a hill, and fled upward until 
she was halted by an imperious: 

“ Oil?” 

The girl stopped, spent, panting, and 
her gaze, hot with the deflance of help- 
lessness, sought the ugly shadow before 
her. 

This figure was not one to cast ugly 
shadows. It was a boy, very little, very 
lean, with hair as black as a bad dream, 
and eyes ablaze with brightness. The 
boy was L’Un, the older of those Paul 
twins who were known on the Bayou 
as L’Un et L’ Autre. He returned the 
girl’s quivering glance with one of keen 
questioning and repeated: 

Oil?” 

Then as her panting lips made no 
reply, L’Un thought of another thing. 

[ 4 ] 


The Flower of Flame 

Since he had begun to come to school 
he had learned that all people — nota- 
bly, the teacher — could not understand 
French. No matter. He, L’Un, could 
speak his American, which Herbert, his 
big brother, had taught him. Proudly 
the little chap squared himself to the 
undertaking, thrusting his fingers into 
his trousers and translating grandly: 

“Voila! Where ’t is you go? Ha?” 

The girl did not seem to hear. Her 
breath broke badly. Her glance went 
past him, seeking as in fear. But the 
teacher heard and came quickly to the 
door to see what the school’s imp of 
mischief was up to now. 

“ L’Un, I thought you went out to 
get that pencil. What are you doing 
there?” 

L’Un turned indignantly. 

“ Me? I don’t do not’ing. I talk her 
French. I talk her English aussi. Mais 
all time she stand dere look, look — 
[ 5 ] 


Marie oe Arcady 


Godamit, I t’ink, me, she got no 
head.’’ 

“L’Un!” And the teacher also was 
out in the well-worn path. 

“Didn’t I tell you that you must 
not say ‘ Godamit ’? It is wicked. Go 
to your seat.” 

L’Un obeyed the pointing hand, and 
the hand, returning, came to rest on the 
girl’s arm. 

“ Come in, child. You must not stand 
in this hot sun. We are crowded, but 
I can find a seat for you near the larger 
girls.” 

It was the voice of authority and the 
girl obeyed it, trembling under the firm 
hold that guided her; shrinking from 
the scores of black eyes that blazed their 
excited wonder upon her dusty face and 
feet and clean, clean hands. 

The corner was reached, the girl was 
seated, then the teacher brought book and 
pencil and the perfunctory question: 

[ 6 ] 


The Flower of Flame 

“What is your name?” 

The girl, whose glance was going 
round the schoolroom as if it still sought 
what it feared to find, did not seem to 
hear. The teacher tried again, doing 
the best she could in French: 

“ Quel nom as tu? ” 

The girl’s wild, seeking eyes sank as 
she drew into a corner, with her clean 
hands tightly clasped, and the teacher’s 
question came again: 

“Quel nom as tu?” 

A quick breath quivered; the school 
leaned to listen; a silence fell. Then 
again came the question, patient, piti- 
less: 

“ Quel nom as tu? ” 

An impish, triumphant whisper came 
in answer: 

“ Ha, ain’t I say, me, she got no 
head?” the whisper came from L’Un’s 
seat. “No head ” was the ’Cajan phrase 
for fool; and it made the teacher re- 
[ 7 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


member that every ’Cajan girl has a 
“ Marie ” somewhere in her name. She 
put her hand on the girl’s shoulder and 
said firmly in French: 

“You must tell me your last name, 
Marie.” 

And this time the answer was not a 
whisper but a wail — a wail, as it would 
seem, of terror, yet piteous: 

“M’ cou! M’cou!” 

“ Your neck? ” said the teacher. Then 
she brightened. “ Oh, you mean your 
name is Micou!” It was the best her 
English ears could do and she wrote it 
down briskly. “Don’t cry, child. No 
one is going to hurt you,” she said in 
English and went away, impatient, to 
catch up with her waiting classes. 

The little girl, too tired to run any 
more, even if she had dared to leave 
her corner, sobbed helplessly. There had 
been the hideous shadow, the terrible 
question, and now there would be — 
[ 8 ] 


The Flower of Flame 

Voila! Already there was a girl of 
about her own age sliding down the 
bench toward her, — a girl with warm, 
bright hair and joyous eyes, who bent 
down to her with soothing in her touch. 
It was Felicie Santerre. 

“ Don’t cry, Marie,” she whispered, 
and her ’Cajan tongue made of the 
words a comforting caress. “ For why 
you cry? You scared for teacher to 
write your name? Voila, das ain’t 
not’ing. ’T is just how teacher do. 
Everybody’s name she write in book, 
mais oui, tout le monde. She ain’t going 
do you not’ing, no. Don’t cry, cheriel 
For why you cry? You t’irsty? — oui? 
I will ask teacher let me give you water. 
Don’t you cry, cherie.” She went and 
came again quickly with a dripping 
cup. 

“ You can drink it all — dere ’s 
plenty.” 

As Marie’s dry lips closed eagerly 

[ 9 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 


upon the cool tin brim the hand on her 
shoulder steadied her. She returned the 
cup with a whisper: 

“ T’ank you.” 

“ You welcome,” Felicie said kindly, 
and sat down close beside her. 

The teacher had called a class, and a 
tall boy had started up the aisle. He 
seemed to stumble as he passed before 
the two girls, and his book fell at their 
feet. He blundered downward to re- 
cover it and Marie Iboked up, startled 
by his abruptness, and looked straight 
into his face, small and skinny; into his 
eyes, round and bright. 

“Doggone!” said the boy, “you do 
just like one fool.” 

Marie drew nearer to Felicie, but 
Felicie had for this fright a comforting 
whisper also. 

“ ’T is Valere,” she said gently, — 
“Valere Dupre. He ain’t going do 
you not’ing, no!” 

[ 10 ] 


The Flower of Flame 

She spoke very gently. A year ago 
Valere had offered Felicie his hand in 
marriage, and Felicie had cried and said 
she was sorry. It was such a shabby 
hand, — long-nailed with curved fin- 
gers, — not the right kind of hand to 
be on a boy’s arm. But Felicie had 
never told anybody about that. She 
began now to make Marie look else- 
where. 

“ Dose little chaps yonder,” she pointed 
her speller, ‘‘ one wit’ black hair, one 
wit’ yellow? ’Tis L’Un et L’ Autre, — 
dey ’s twin. Das big boy dere das have 
his head so high is brot’er wit’ dem. 
Herbert. He ’s proud, yes. Proud, 
like M. Reneau.” 

A breath escaped Marie. 

“Reneau?” she repeated. 

“ Oui,” said Felicie. “ M. Victor 
Reneau. He is rich man, and proud, 
ma foil — Mais, Herbert, he ain’t rich, 
no! He ain’t got not’ing; not even 
[ 11 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 


horse. He ’s engaged to my sister 
Josephine, yonder.” The speller pointed 
again. “ Dey ’s going make marry 
when he got house ready.” 

Felicie went on cheerfully with her 
comforting schoolroom gossip, but there 
was one boy toward whom her speller 
never pointed, of whom no story was told, 
— a big, broad-shouldered fellow, who 
sat near the top of the school, and who 
carried his head with a fine, fearless fling 
that went well with his good-humored 
glance and kindly smiling lips. Spent 
and famished, and full of fear, Marie 
watched him with a soothing sense of 
safety; watched him swing out of his 
seat; watched him walk. 

The big fellow was Aluin Moise, 
Felicie’s best boy friend. Since he was 
a little chap Aluin had always stood by 
Felicie, and as soon as school was out 
he came to stand by her in her cham- 
pionship for the newcomer, quietly put- 
[ 12 ] 


Thk Flowee of Flame 

ting aside the curious crowd with a push 
of his strong arms. 

‘‘ You going take Marie home wit’ 
you?” he asked kindly. Aluin was 
always kind, like his papa, M. Moise, 
who was the best loved man on the 
Bayou. 

‘‘Mais oui!” said Felicie. 

There seemed to be nothing else to 
do. Felicie did not want to do any- 
thing else. She repeated, “ Mais oui,” 
and asked courteously, “ You going go 
home wit’ me, ha, Marie?” 

Marie nodded shyly, her lashes upon 
her cheeks. The three stood together in 
the hot afternoon sunshine, — the big 
Aluin, the laughing Felicie, the way- 
worn Marie. The teacher looked at the 
group as she passed it. From some 
things she had noticed the teacher had 
begun to believe that Felicie would 
marry Aluin in the days to come. His 
strength and her gladness would be 
[ 13 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 


beautifully mated, so the teacher thought, 
and she knew that on Bienvieu matches 
were made in the schoolroom rather than 
in heaven. Also, Aluin’s mother, the 
live little Madame with whom the teacher 
boarded, had been often heard to say 
in one of those eager repetitions that 
make up such a pretty part of the 
Bayou talk: 

I don’t believe, me, dere can be girl 
more fine dan Felicie. Ma foi, she can 
laugh glad, yes.” 

Something in the way Aluin was 
looking at the stranger made the teacher 
look also. 

“ She is a beautiful child,” she said 
in wonder. And Marie was beautiful, 
with the large-eyed beauty of her kind, 
with the firelit beauty that a dash of 
Italian blood gives to ’Cajan comeliness, 
— “a face like a flower,” the teacher 
thought, ‘‘ but like a flower with a flame 
behind it.” 


[ 14 ] 


The Flower of Flame 

The sun stooped lower, the shadows 
fell. Aluin and Felicie with Marie be- 
tween them turned into the path that 
led to the Santerre farm. The teacher, 
with the two little Moise girls, went on 
toward her boarding place and found 
Madame Moise waiting for her, all life 
and eagerness. 

“ Ma foi,” cried the gay little Madame 
in greeting, “ I hear, me, you have new 
scholar to-day.” 

“ Yes,” said the teacher. She had long 
ago ceased trying to understand how 
news traveled on the Bayou. It seemed 
to have wings and a will of its own and 
the teacher supposed that it had. 

“ Ma foi,” commented Madame. 
“ And she say her name is Marie 
Micou? I wish to know, me, where ’t is 
she come from. She come up big road, 
maybe? ” 

“Yes,” said the teacher again, and 
began to eat her bean soup. 

[ 15 ] 


Marie of Arc ad y 


“Mais oui! And I hear, me, she is 
all dirty but her hands, and dey is clean, 
yes. 

“ I did n’t notice,” said the teacher. 

Madame laughed out in merry delight. 

“You ain’t see das, no? Dere ain’t 
anybody pass since she come das ain’t 
say, ‘Das Marie Micou, she keep her 
hands clean, yes.’ Clean like moon in 
winter. Mais oui, dey all say das. Ha, 
here my old man is ! ” 

It was, indeed, M. Moise who ap- 
peared just then at the kitchen door, but 
a M. Moise very hot and very black. 

“ Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait,” he said 
courteously to the teacher, “ I been down 
to kiln sacking coal.” 

“ You must have found it warm work 
this afternoon,” Miss May said cordi- 
ally. She liked the big, slow-spoken 
Monsieur; liked him heartily. 

“Yes, ma’m. Hot sho.” M. Moise 
turned to his wife: 

[ 16 ] 


The Flower of Flame 

“ Ou Aluin, Bebe? ’’ 

He ain’t come yet,” Madame cried 
hastily. She was in a fever to tell the 
news. ‘‘ Voila, cher! Miss May have 
new scholar to-day,” she began busily. 
Madame Moise had a very busy way 
of talking, her hands, eyes, shoulders, 
and even her feet sometimes, taking 
part in her speech. “ Mais oui. A new 
scholar! Nobody don’t know her name. 
Don’t know where ’t is she come ; don’t 
know not’ing! And when teacher ask 
her somet’ing she cry! Mais oui, cry 
like she is scare’. And she is all dirty, 
cher. AJl dirty, yes, but her hands. 
And dey ’s clean, — clean like she ’s just 
been wash’.” 

“ Sho, sho,” Monsieur said kindly. 
M. Moise always said ‘‘ sho, sho,” and 
then stopped to think about it be- 
fore he said farther. Madame ran on 
eagerly: 

“ Mais voila, cher. She say her name 
* [ 17 ] 


Marie of Arc ad y 

is Marie. Marie Micou. Micou ! I 
wish to know, me, what name das is. 
I never hear name like das on Bayou. 
Ain’t it curious?” 

“ Sho,” said Monsieur. ‘‘ Curious, 
sho ! ” He stopped to think a bit and 
then put a deliberate question: 

“And where she is now, Bebe? Das 
Marie Micou? ” 

“ She go home wit’ Felicie Santerre. 
Seem like Felicie is only somebody in 
school don’t make her scared.” 

Monsieur shook his big head slowly. 

“ I don’t reckon, me, she can stay 
dere,'^ he said. 

“ You don’t reckon,” Madame ut- 
tered. “Ma foi! I reckon, me, if she 
wish to stay she will stay, yes! Das old 
Sam Santerre, he ’s scholard. He don’t 
care, no! If he ain’t got but one ’tater 
and man come long, ask him for piece, 
voila! He ’s going break das tater in 
two, give him piece! And he ain’t ever 
[ 18 ] 


The Flower of Flame 


going stop t’ink where he ’s going get 
some more piece, no ! ” 

M. Moise began to nod his head 
preparatory to saying “ sho,” but before 
he could say it his little Madame had 
plunged headlong into the new opening. 

“ And where she will sleep — Me, I 
don’t know! Das house, it is so little, 
and dere ’s so many children in dere 
already. Dose little chaps, dey sleep 
under kitchen table now. Ma foi, I 
donH know where das Marie Micou can 
sleep.” 

Into the tragic pause M. Moise said, 
“ Sho, sho,” and considered it. But it 
was not to the stringencies of Santerre’s 
house-room that Monsieur bent his 
thinking. With the mind of a bread- 
winner he was considering the scholar’s 
resources. 

‘‘ I don’t know, me,” he summed up 
slowly. “ I don’t know if Sam can do 
like das.” 


[ 19 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Madame rushed into reply. 

“Oh, cher!” she appealed, “you 
reckon Sam Santerre ’s ever going stop 
t’ink if he can do, or if he can’t do? 
Mais non! He’s just going go do. 
’T is his Madame das will have to stop 
t’ink. Ma foi, I reckon she’s going 
have to t’ink heap before she find place 
for das Marie to sleep!” 

The big Monsieur had ever a word 
of excuse for a name under blame. 

“ Sam ’s scholard,” he said gently. 
“Scholard, sho!” 

This excuse of scholarship that was 
so often urged in defence of M. San- 
terre’s dreamy thriftlessness had been 
assigned to the old man when it was 
learned years ago that he could sign the 
teacher’s report. A thing that none of 
the other Monsieurs on Bienvieu could 
do. Scholarship, of course, could not 
feed hungry mouths, but M. Moise 
thought he had settled the question of 
[ 20 ] 


The Flower of Flame 

feeding Marie Micou when he got up 
weightily and said: 

“ I reckon, Bebe, better tell Madame 
Sam we going fetch her load of ’taters 
for help out wit’ Marie. For help out, 
sho.” 

And Marie Micou did indeed go to live 
in the Santerre household; to brighten 
a bit in the presence of Felicie’s glad- 
ness, and, eh bien, to attend school, say 
her lessons, and begin to learn English 
words, just as the other children did. 

But for all that L’Un, the black- 
haired twin, stuck manfully to his first 
opinion, — that the new girl had no 
head. He stoutly defended his position, 
asking: 

“ Godamit! Don’t she wash her 
hands all time?” 

L’Un’s own hands were a pair of 
black little paws that made the teacher 
shudder. 


[21] 


CHAPTER TWO 

A DIME AND DELIGHT 

“ Where had Marie Micou come from? ” 
But yes, that may have been a burning 
question; but there was another ques- 
tion of even more intense interest that 
held the attention and wagged the 
tongues of all the Mesdames on Bayou 
Bienvieu. It was : 

“ I wish to know what Madame Sam 
is going do about das, maybe? ” 

Madame Sam soon showed them what 
she was going to do touching this, her 
Monsieur’s latest piece of unthinking 
generosity. She set about thriftily to 
make the best of it. Twenty-five years 
of life as the wife of a scholar had taught 
her that it was cheaper to work than 
to worry. She put her philosophy very 
plainly: 


[ 22 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

“ When you work, you can laugh; but 
when you worry, you can’t laugh, no. 
And when woman can laugh, den she is 
strong! ” 

So with a laugh, Madame Sam set 
herself to search for the jewel in the 
snout of this perplexity. She tried Marie 
at the cooking kettle; then she tried her 
at the washtub ; then, undaunted by 
disasters, she said gaily: 

“ Eh, bien, ma belle enfant. I wish 
to know, me, what ’tis you can do, 
maybe? ” 

Marie’s reply was an unhappy mur- 
mur: 

‘‘ I can sew,” she said. 

“ Ha? ” Madame uttered kindly. 
“ And how ’t is you can sew, maybe? ” 

“ Like dis,” Marie told her. She 
picked up a piece of cloth from the floor 
and began to pull it to pieces, thread 
by thread. Madame, looking on, felt 
L’Un’s declaration being forced into her 
[ 23 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


mind. If this was sewing, surely it was 
the sewing of the silly. But Madame 
Sam, being strong, and patient, and 
kind, sat silently watching the bent head 
and busy, clean fingers, and while she 
watched, her eyes began to snap with 
comprehension. Marie was not pulling 
out all the threads, only a few of them 
one way, then a few of them another 
way. Madame had seen that done be- 
fore. It took clean, supple fingers to 
do it well. She got up quietly and 
brought a needle and thread and laid 
them on Marie’s knee. If it should be 
that this strange girl could sew like 
that! With quickening heart-beats she 
watched, while Marie deftly pulled the 
threads this way, and that way, and 
then — ah, Heaven! — with the threaded 
needle began to put back other threads 
in the place of those she had pulled 
out. But she did not put them back 
as they had been before. Madame Sam 
[ 24 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

clenched her own tough hands together 
in an ecstasy of joy and excitement. 
Before her eyes rose a vision dear to 
her dreams, — a vision of something black 
and shiny, standing in all its bright 
beauty before her kitchen fireplace. A 
stove ! Madame Sam, with her eyes upon 
Marie’s fingers tying dainty knots and 
putting in skillful stitches, saw the stove 
grow and grow, until almost it became 
the verity she had longed for through 
all her housewife days. 

It was Saturday afternoon. Jose- 
phine and Felicie were in the kitchen 
ironing their white dresses against Her- 
bert’s coming on the morrow. The 
scholar was out in the field planting po- 
tatoes, when he should have been break- 
ing ground for turnips. The boys had 
gone fishing. Marie stitched away until 
the little square of cloth had become a 
web of fairy-like daintiness. When at 
length she took out the needle for the 
[ 25 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


last time and looked up, Madame Sam 
was standing over her with glistening 
eyes and trembling smile. 

“ You will let me have das sewing if 
you please, Marie? ” she asked, and her 
hands shook a bit |is she took the scrap 
and folded it into paper. “ Arret’,” she 
said, leaving off a syllable as ’Cajan 
women do sometimes when they are ex- 
cited. “Arret’. Me, I go on Black 
Bayou. If my old man come to house 
before I get home, say to him I have 
gone abroad to see somebody.” 

The Black Bayou settlement was six 
miles away, and it was rather late in the 
afternoon to set forth upon so long a 
walk, but Madame Sam lost no time 
about the doing of it. With the care- 
fully folded bit of sewing in one hand 
and her shoes in the other, Madame 
swung away to make the call. Her 
skirts were tucked up to the knee on one 
[ 26 ] 


A Dime and Delight 


side, to be out of the way of her stride; 
the side flaps of her sunbonnet were 
thrown up over the crown of it and tied 
there with the bonnet strings, that she 
might get all the air she needed, and yet 
have eyes and brain-base shielded from 
the August sun. So Madame swung 
along. She was a tall woman and got 
over the ground with the lope of a long- 
legged horse. Up hill, down hill, over 
sharp pebbles or hot sand, through water, 
through mud; on she went — the light, 
springing steps of the bare-footed, with 
the swift, swinging stride of the strong 
— making four miles an hour, and not 
drawing an extra breath. Once she 
stopped, before crossing a sun-beaten 
flat, to pull some green leaves and put 
them in a cool layer between the top of 
her head and the crown of her black bon- 
net. Once she dived into a mass of under- 
growth to gather an herb good for burns. 
But never for an instant did she lose sight 
[ 27 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

of the project she had in mind, and al- 
ways the stove went before her like a 
beckoning beauty. 

“Ah, Heaven!” she said at intervals, 
“ maybe you t’ink I ain’t going keep das 
stove nice, no! ” 

There were two widowed sisters living 
on Black Bayou, who did such sewing 
as Marie had done on that bit of cloth, 
and they made much money by doing it. 
They received orders from New Orleans 
for more work than they could do, and 
though they were killing themselves at 
their needle, they were counted the richest 
people on the Black. 

“ Ajid I know, me, dey going be glad 
to give Marie some of das work to do. 
Dey can’t do it all — T’ree dollar for 
handkerchief — and ’t is only week dey 
take to do das. Me, I can fetch work 
every Saturday. T’ree dollar first week, 
t’ree dollar next week — Ah, heaven! 
’T is soon I ’m going have stove now. 

[ 28 ] 


A Dime and Delight 


And maybe you t’ink I ain’t going keep 
das stove clean, me! I’ll keep it clean 
as Marie’s fingers. Voila! ” 

Voila! Madame Sam had reached the 
edge of the Black Bayou settlement and 
it was time for her to put on style. She 
turned aside to a little stream that ran 
there and washed her face and her feet, 
and dried them on her underskirt. Then 
she put on her shoes, shook down her 
skirts, smoothed her hair, threw away 
the green leaves, and let the flaps of her 
bonnet flutter gaily. With the leisurely 
air of elegance and the dragging step 
of the shod, she entered the Black Bayou 
center of trade. 

The sisters were at home. Eh, bien, 
they were always at home and always 
stitching. Madame Sam, vigorous with 
the vigor of the open air, noted them as 
they rose to greet her — one of them 
with black circles under her eyes, the 
other with red spots in her cheeks. 

[ 29 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ Ma foi,” reflected Madame Sam, “ I 
would not wish any of my girls to look 
like das, no! not for kitchen stove!’* 
Aloud she made the expected inquiry 
concerning their health. 

They were not well, Madame Celestine 
told her. Mary have mercy upon them! 
they were not well. They made money, 
yes. But all their money went to pay 
doctor’s bill. ’Tisie had a pain in her 
side, and she, all the time she had the 
headache. 

“ Maybe ’t is if you don’t sew so 
much,” Madame Sam suggested prac- 
tically. 

“ Mais oui,” Madame Celestine cried, 
“ ’T is like das de doctor say. Mais — ” 
and both sisters spread their hands 
wide, “ mais, we must fill de order. All 
time we must fill de order, or where 
will we get money for pay de doctor? 
Ha? ” 

It was an unanswerable argument. 

[ 30 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

Madame Sam did not attempt to refute 
it. She said : 

“ I have young girl come stay wit’ me. 
She do stitch like das, and I t’ink maybe 
’t is you can give her some work you 
don’t want.” 

Madame ’Tisie raised her head sharply. 
It was not fair for a caller to begin talk- 
ing about something else before she, 
’Tisie, had had an opportunity to tell 
about the pain in her side. 

“ I wish to know, me,” she said un- 
graciously, “ how she do stitch.” 

But Madame Celestine had had her 
say and was keen for news. 

“ Das young girl? ’T is das Marie 
Micou we been hear ’bout, ha? Dey say 
she wash her hands so much ! ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said Madame Sam. “ She 
keep her hands clean. All time her hands 
is clean like yours is. She keep dem 
clean for sew.” Madame Sam might 
want a kitchen stove and want it badly, 
[ 31 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


but not even the richest woman on the 
Black should criticise the little girl who 
had. come to her for shielding. Hay- 
ing silenced the sisters, Madame added 
complacently: 

“ But yes, Marie have nice hands. 
Aussi, she do nice work. Voila!” 

And as Madame Sam spread in her 
hard palm the scrap of sewing, it was 
as though some wonderful thing had 
happened. The sisters let fall their 
stitching. Madame Celestine forgot her 
headache, Madame ’Tisie the pain in her 
side; and in their wide-open faces, Ma- 
dame Sam saw shining her kitchen 
stove! 

“ I t’ink, me, she do right nice work,” 
she said. “ I t’ink if I show das work to 
some stranger, maybe, she will say: 
‘ Mais oui! ’T is nice work. I wish das 
your Marie make mouchoir for me.’ I 
t’ink, me, maybe she say aussi: ‘ Voila! 
I will pay you’ little girl free dollar 
[ 32 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

for make me mouchoir so fine like 
das ’ — ” 

Madame Celestine shut her face in 
a hurry and interrupted: 

“ But no! ” Then having uttered the 
ejaculation with emphasis, she waited 
and left it for Madame ’Tisie to say in 
clever mimicry to Madame Sam what 
their patrons not infrequently said to 
them. 

“It is impossible for us to pay so 
much,” Madame ’Tisie said. 

“ Eh bien,” Madame Sam remarked. 
“ Dose shadows yonder, dey get long 
some. — I reckon, me, I better be go- 
ing.” She arose, all gracious bearing. 
“ I don’t reckon you could pay Marie 
’nough for make it wort’ while for me 
to fetch work so far. ’T is six mile I 
come; ’tis six mile I go.” 

“ How much you going want for 
fetch work? ” asked Madame ’Tisie. 
This was a source of revenue Madame 
3 [33 ] 


Makie of Aecady 


Sam had not foreseen. She was startled 
and was almost saying that she would 
charge nothing for her journeying, but 
checked the speech with a shrug of her 
shoulder : 

“ Oh, I don’t know, me. Ten cents, 
maybe.” 

“ Dix sous,” repeated the sisters. They 
were the richest people on the Black, but 
then, it took all their money to pay the 
doctor. “Dix sous!” and they sighed: 
“ Eh bien! ” 

Madame Sam began to fold the bit 
of fairy- work into its papers. The sis- 
ters watched her sadly. How strong she 
looked, towering above them as they sat 
sewing! Strong as sunshine. They 
would have to pay the ten cents. Ma- 
dame ’Tisie looked at Madame Celes- 
tine. Madame Celestine arose wearily 
and said: 

“Ten cents! Eh bien! Now we have 
little mouchoir here — ’t will have to be 
[ 34 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

nice work! I don’t know if your Marie 
can make it like das woman wish — 
Das woman, she find de fault so much. 
Oh, mon Dieu, she find de fault! If 
your Marie spoil das cloth, she will have 
to pay. If she make it, ’t is two dollar 
and fifty cents she will get for make — ” 
Madame ’Tisie put in precisely: 

“ Mais, if Marie don’t make mouchoir, 
if she send cloth back, we don’t pay you 
not’ing for fetch it. No! ” 

Madame Sam with a grand shrug took 
the package Madame Celestine was put- 
ting into her hand : 

‘‘ Bien,” she said. “ I will show it to 
Marie. If she t’ink it wort’ while to 
make it for two dollar and fifty cent — ” 
Madame shrugged again. Then she 
gave the wealthy women gracious adieus, 
and put out for home. At the edge of 
the settlement she took off her shoes and 
began to live her glad, free life again. 
Ten cents ! What could she not do with 
[ 35 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


this extra ten cents a week? A spoon 
one week, a fork the next week, a 
pan — 

“ But no, ’t is pan I will get first week. 
First week, petit bassinet! — comme- 
(ja,” said Madame Sam, measuring off 
the imaginary circumference with her 
large hands and talking eagerly to her- 
self as she strode along. “ Tudieu, I 
don’t know, me, how long ’tis I been 
wish to have little pan like das. And 
now, voila, I have him! I know, me, 
Marie can make mouchoir.” 

How fine it was! To have wanted a 
nice kitchen so long — so very long — 
and to see it now shaping itself before 
her on the sunbeams that fell long and 
slant between the pines. 

Madame Sam swung in from her 
twelve-mile tramp with a cheer to her 
old man: 

“ Voila, cher. You ain’t had some 
supper. No?” 


[ 36 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

M. Santerre was sitting on the steps. 
His hair was white, and thin at the 
temples, but his eyes were kind, lighted 
always with sombre fires of feeling. M. 
Santerre had not been a success from a 
financial point of view, yet failure had 
not made him bitter; had, indeed, made 
him tender towards every sort of 
suffering. 

“ No,” he said gently to his Madame, 
‘‘we ain’t had some supper. De boys 
catch some fish but de girls did n’t know 
if you wish dem to be cooked for to- 
night or kept for to-morrow.” 

Madame Sam laughed gaily: 

“Oh, dose girls! We cook some for 
now, — keep some for to-morrow. Me, 
— I go cook you some supper tout-de- 
suite.” 

The scholar detained her gently: 

“ Dey ’s little, cherie. Dose fish.” 

But Madame retorted: 

“ Voila, little fish make big soup,” and 
[ 37 ] 


Makie of Aecady 

M. Santerre had to tell her bad news 
full upon her buoyancy: 

“ Cherie, while de boys don’t watch 
what he do, das Valere Dupre come 
long. He cut all de head off dose fish, 
and he t’row dose head back in Bayou.” 

‘‘ Cut off heads and t’row dem back 
in Bayou!” But Madame ralhed gal- 
lantly in an instant; 

“ He ain’t got no head, das Valere. 
Pauvre gar9on. De boys must watch 
out. Eh bien, cher, if we ain’t got 
not’ing but tails for make soup, den I 
reckon, me, you going have to eat tail 
soup for your supper, ha? ” And laugh- 
ing not at her own lame joke but at the 
light shed on it by her old man’s grateful 
eyes, Madame hung her bonnet on the 
nail, put her shoes into the corner where 
they belonged, and dived into the kitchen. 
Had it been there blinking at her, the 
stove that was to be, Madame Sam could 
not have seen it more clearly. 

[ 38 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

The fish were little, also they were few, 
but Madame divided them briskly into 
two piles without pausing to make them 
smaller by moaning over them. She 
put some lard into the bottom of a big 
pot, and when it was hot, dropped one 
little pile of fish into it. They browned 
and sizzled and smelt mighty good — 
so Madame thought. She stirred in 
some flour and browned it too, then she 
chopped up a garlic from her garden, 
and onions — several of them, for Ma- 
dame was feeling rich to-night — and 
put in a red pepper from her garden 
also, and a green pepper, and at last 
some salt. Then she filled the big pot 
full of hot water, and clapped the top 
on to keep the smell in. And she left the 
soup to boil and boil until there should be 
no visible sign of the fish but the bones. 

It is the custom on the Bayou for 
Monsieur to eat alone while his Madame 
serves him. When he has made his 
[ 39 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


meal, then his wife and children make 
theirs. But M. Santerre, who differed 
so from his neighbors in many ways, dif- 
fered also in this way. He wished his 
wife and children to eat with him. So 
while the soup was boiling, Madame 
Sam set the table. All around the edge 
of the table she set a row of bowls, and 
into each bowl she put a spoon and big 
chunk of bread. The bread was “ bake- 
oven bread.” Madame had baked it 
herself in her own big earthen oven: 
sweet, wholesome bread, — no alum in 
it, no alkali, and so dry that a bit of it 
dropped into milk or soup would swell 
instantly to four times its size and be- 
come delicious. In all the world there is 
not bread more fit to be the food of man 
than “bake-oven bread.” 

Madame poured the boiling soup over 
the bread in the bowls, and called in the 
hungry Monsieur and the eagerly sniff- 
ing young people: 

[ 40 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

“ Voila,” she cried gaily, “ you have 
for your supper soup of de fish! And 
if you can’t tell ’t is fish, you can go 
look at bones in pot. I don’t say dere ’s 
many bones dere, no! But dere’s 
some'' 

The happy, hungry ones greeted this 
sally with peals of laughter. Oh, but 
yes! It is easy to laugh when you 
thought to sup on dry bread, and have 
a fine soup set before you. Everybody 
laughed, that is, everybody but Marie 
Micou. She had stopped to wash her 
hands at the well, and was late getting 
to her place. 

After supper the girls washed the 
bowls and sang over the washing of 
them, while the boys sat on the steps and 
told what they were going to be when 
they grew to manhood. Such a good 
soup it had been! And Madame, with- 
out aid of miracles, had made it of five 
small fish, minus their heads! Ah, but 
[ 41 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

then she had put a bit of heart into the 
pot. That was Madame Sam’s way of 
cooking. 

And Madame Sam’s heart was glad 
to-night; so glad, that just as soon as 
the young people had gone to bed her 
heart began to share its gladness with 
her grave Monsieur; 

“ Voila, cher,” she said, sitting down 
close beside him on the top step, “ we 
going be rich. Me, I ’m going have 
kitchen stove ! ” 

The old man turned to her in bewil- 
derment : 

“ Mais, cherie,” he stammered. 

Madame laughed. 

“ ’T is das Marie,” she said gleefully. 
“You ain’t t’ink when you tell me I 
must find place for das little girl to sleep, 
’cause she ain’t got place to sleep, you 
ain’t t’ink den, maybe, das we going be 
rich because she come. Ha? ” 

“ No,” the scholar said honestly, “ I 
[ 42 ] 


A Dime and Delight 


ain’t t’ink das. Certainly, certainly, 
sho.” 

“ Cher, das little girl show me to-day 
how she can sew. Oui, ’t is pretty ! She 
can make mouchoir more fine dan das 
Madame Celestine on Black Bayou! I 
go dere to-day. I show das work to dose 
Mesdames. I tell dem I t’ink maybe 
Marie can do some work for dem. Dey 
look at work; dey say yes, she can do 
work. Voila, cher, dey say dey give 
Marie Micou two dollar and fifty cents 
for make mouchoir. Dey say dey give 
me ten cents for fetch work. We going 
be rich! And, me, I ’m going have 
kitchen stove! ” 

The scholar turned upon her with 
troubled eyes. He hated so to hurt her, 
— to take away her joy, — and yet he 
had to tell her how it was. 

“ I reckon, cherie,” he said gently, 
‘‘ ’t is Marie Micou das going be rich. 
I ’m glad, me, you take her work to dose 
[ 43 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 


Mesdames. I ’m glad dey going give 
her work, and pay her plenty for make 
mouchoir. I ’m glad dey going pay you 
aussi for feteh work. I ’m proud for 
das! Mais, cherie, das money Marie 
Micou make, ’t is for her. ’T is not for 
us.” 

‘‘ ’T is not for us? ” uttered Ma- 
dame Sam. “ Mais,” she stammered, 
“ mais — ” 

“ No,” the scholar told her gently, 

’t is not for us, das money. ’T is for 
Marie Micou.” 

Madame Sam was always obedient to 
her husband’s decisions as a ’Cajan wife 
should be. But to give up her stove 
without an argument — not even a 
’Cajan woman could do that: 

“ But, cher,” she said, “ if Marie live 
wit’ us? Voila, cher! If Josephine or 
Felicie make some money, das money it 
is for us? ” 

“ Mais oui, if Josephine or Felicie 
[ 44 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

make some money — Mais Marie Micou, 
she ain’t child wit’ us.” 

“ She live wit’ us same like she was 
our child,” Madame protested earnestly. 
Her stove seemed to be fading away in 
a cloud of vapors, and she wanted it 
just where it was in her mind, wanted it 
also where it was to be in the near future, 
all black and shiny and beautiful to be- 
hold. Her protest became a plea: 

“ Marie live wit’ us same like she was 
our child. And, me, I t’ink for her same 
like I t’ink for Felicie.” 

“ Yes,” said the scholar, ‘‘ and ’t is kind 
for you to do like das. But, cherie, she 
ain’t child wit’ us. Das money she make 
wit’ her stitch — ’tis for her; ’tis not 
for us.” 

This was final. Madame blinked her 
eyes a bit as the vision of her stove 
slipped over the edge of the Is*to-be; 
but in another minute she had thought 
of something cheerful. 

[ 45 ] 


Marie of Aecady 

“ Mais voila, cher. Das ten cents I 
get for fetch work, das is for me.” 

And to this the scholar could agree, 
saying cordially: 

“Certainly, certainly, sho! Das ten 
cents you get, ’t is for you. Certainly, 
certainly, sho ! ” 

“ Mais oui! Et voila, cher,” Madame 
cried on a returning tide of eagerness; 
“ I ’m going buy me pan — petit bassi- 
net, comme-9a!” 

“ Pardieu,” the scholar told her, “ dere 
ain’t woman on Bayou so fine like you. I 
wish, me, I could buy wagon-load of 
pans for you! ” 

Madame’s laugh rang out: 

“ Oh, mais non, ’t is not load of pan 
I wish. Ciel I I wish to know, me, where 
’t is I could put so much pan — But das 
load, cher. Das make me t’ink! Ma- 
dame Moise come to Torino’s house yes- 
terday, and she was tell me her old man 
say, soon ’s he dig some ’taters he ’s going 
[ 46 ] 


A Dime and Delight 

send us wagon-load for help out wit’ 
Marie Micou. ’T is like he say.” 

The scholar had, however, to take a 
learned view of this also. 

“ I reckon M. Moise did n’t know how 
Marie could make stitch when he send 
us word like das. I reckon he t’ink Marie 
Micou can’t make some money when he 
send us word he ’s going fetch ’taters. 
But me, I will go dere to-morrow, and 
tell him how ’t is. Tell him, sho.” 

Madame Sam made no protest. She 
saw clearly that the ten cents a week was 
all she was going to make by the coming 
of Marie Micou, — all she was going to 
receive for the extra care and trouble, 
and the numerous economies the feeding 
of an additional mouth would make nec- 
essary. But that ten cents meant a little 
pan, and Madame Sam slept soundly on 
the thought of it. 


[ 47 ] 


CHAPTER THREE 

A SHAMEFUL THING 

M. Santerre, for all his Madame’s 
meekness, was not to settle matters ac- 
cording to his notions of justice, without 
encountering some opposition. 

The next day — as he had said he 
would do — he went around to the Moise 
place to tell M. Moise that the load of 
potatoes would not be needed, to explain 
why, and to say thank you. M. Moise 
took it all with his tolerant “ sho, sho,” 
but Madame Moise had a question to ask. 
And Madame Moise’s questions, as all 
the Bayou knew, increased and multi- 
plied exceedingly upon being answered: 

“ Ha,” she cried, all vivacity, “ I wish 
to know what kind of work das Marie 
Micou do, maybe? ” 

[ 48 ] 


A Shameful Thing 


“ She sew,” the scholar explained 
gently. 

“ Sew? Ma foi! I wish to know, me, 
what ’t is she sew das make her so rich, 
maybe. All de women on Bayou sew, 
but dey don’t make much money, no! ” 

“ Like you say, Madame,” M. San- 
terre assented courteously. 

“ But how ’t is she sew, ha? ” Madame 
persisted. 

M. Santerre spread his hands wide. 

“ Me, I don’t know, Madame. ’T is 
my Madame das know.” 

“ Eh bien,” Madame Moise com- 
mented cheerfully, “ I reckon your Ma- 
dame ’s going be right proud to have 
girl das make so much money for her 
like das. I’m gladj me!” she added 
heartily. 

The scholar looked shocked: 

“ Oh, mais non, Madame,” he ex- 
claimed. “ Das money Marie Micou 
make, ’t is for her. ’T is not for us.” 

4 [ 49 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Madame Moise eyed him. She knew 
that the scholar was an impracticable 
mortal and generally made a mess of 
things if he had half a chance, but that 
he should refuse this aid that it would 
seem the Mother in Heaven had herself 
sent him — Madame Moise could not 
believe it. She put a temperate question : 

“ You going have her pay board same 
like teacher do, ha? ” 

M. Santerre shook his head: 

“ What she eat, das ain’t not’ing.” 

The little Madame sat up, alive to the 
tips of her lean toes clicked around the 
rundles of her chair: 

“And what ’tis your Madame say, 
maybe? ” 

“ She say like me.” 

“ Den she is one fool,” Madame shot 
off sharply; “one fool, yes! She say 
what das Marie eat ain’t not’ing, ha? 
Me, ain’t I had girls in my house? Ain’t 
I feed dem? Don’t I know, me, what 
[ 50 ] 


A Shameful Thing 

T is dey eat. ’T is something, yes! And 
’t is de troub’ ! A boy he come, he go. 
But de girl — Ma foil All time ’tis 
to watch. And you say das ain’t not’ing? 
’T was me, I would take one half das 
Marie make, to pay me for take care of 
her. And I reckon, me, your Madame 
ain’t so much — ” 

But by this time M. Moise had gath- 
ered his deliberate forces: 

“ Bebe,” he said, and Madame halted 
mid-career like a baying beagle suddenly 
caught in leash. 

M. Santerre availed himself of the 
pause to take courteous leave and Ma- 
dame availed herself of his departure to 
break forth afresh: 

“ Mais, cher, I t’ink, me, ’t is shame. 
Ma foil I never did see shame so much 
like das. Madame Sam, she have so 
many children, and she have such hard 
time for feed dem. And I know, me, she 
ain’t fool like he say! ’Tis him. All 
[ 51 ] 


Marie or Arcady 


time he go make mess. And he ain’t 
going let her have any of das money. 
Not any ’t all. ‘ Das ain’t right.’ Ha, 
I wish to know if he t’ink ’t is right to 
work his Madame ’till she ’s most dead, 
maybe? ” 

“ Sho, sho,” Monsieur sympathized. 
Then he thought about it. 

“ I reckon Sam sets heap of store by 
his Madame. Heap of store, sho. And 
I reckon maybe das Marie ain’t going 
give her so much troub’. Seems like 
she ’s nice little t’ing.” 

Madame turned upon him protest- 
ingly: 

“ Oh, cher,” she appealed, “ ain’t she 
pretty — das Marie? An’ ain’t pretty 
girl all time going make troub’? You 
got to watch. Watch in de winter and 
watch in de summer. Ma foi! When 
my Camille make marry, I say, me, 
‘ T’ank God I can stop watch de boys 
so much!”’ 


[ 52 ] 


A Shameful Thing 

“ Sho, sho,” Monsieur said, then he 
added thoughtfully: 

“ I wish to know, me, where ’t is she 
come from — das Marie.” 

Madame instantly forgot former cares 
in the zest of it: 

“ And me, I wish to know! ” she cried. 
“ What you t’ink, cher? ” 

M. Moise turned in his chair. He was 
a very large man with a large head, and 
his face was large also with a small black 
mustache that turned up at the ends, and 
with small, finely drawn black eyebrows. 
They were eyebrows that went up in 
protest or question; went down in dis- 
appointment ; drew together with annoy- 
ance, or parted broadly with pleasure; 
rather wonderful eyebrows, doing with 
ability all that the slow tongue left un- 
done. They stood at their natural expres- 
sion of thoughtfulness now as M. Moise 
made answer to Madame’s question. 

“Dere was man at mill to-day, and 
[ 53 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

he was talk! Talk heap, sho. I hear 
him say how ’t is dey have yellow fever in 
city, and das de people yonder been run 
like dey was scared.” He turned again, 
his brow going up in explanation. “Dey 
run to get away from fever — ” 

“And you t’ink Marie run aussi,” 
Madame broke in. “Mafoi! you reckon 
her people is all — dead, maybe?” 

M. Moise considered it, then pro- 
nounced slowly: 

“ I should t’ink somebody would ask 
her das.” 

Madame went off at half cock: 

“Ask her! Ma foi, cher, you reckon 
dere is woman or child on Bayou das 
ain’t ask her das ten times already? But 
what good it do? Das Marie, she cry! 
She look scare! She don’t say not’ing, 
no.” And at that, Madame’s wits darted 
back to the first issue: 

“ I wish to know, me, how ’t is she ’s 
going sew. Voila, cher. I t’ink, me, I 
[ 54 ] 


A Shameful Thing 


go now see Madame Sam. ’T is long 
time I ain’t been to see her. ’T is 
shame ! ” 

Monsieur agreed with his slow, wise 
smile; and it was not until his little 
Madame had smoothed her hair, and put 
on her sun-bonnet that he spoke again. 
Then he said: 

“ Bebe, you ain’t going say not’ing 
to Madame Sam ’bout das money. ’T is 
like Sam say — ’t is for Marie Micou.” 

‘‘ Me, I t’ink,” Madame told him 
frankly, “ if people owe for t’ing, den 
people should pay for t’ing. If Sara 
don’t make das Marie pay for what she 
do for her, I t’ink she will be fool. ’T is 
das I am going tell her.” 

“ Mais, Bebe,” Monsieur pointed out 
deliberately. “ ’T is for M. Santerre to 
say. ’T is his house.” 

At that, Madame Moise, who was half 
way down the steps, snatched off her 
bonnet and faced around: 

[ 55 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“His house! Oh, cher!” she ap- 
pealed, “you t’ink das scholard even 
going have shade to sit in if ’t is n’t for 
das fine femme he ’s got? ” 

“ Sam works hard,” Monsieur said 
kindly. 

“Yes,” Madame agreed, “he works 
hard but, ma foil he don’t do not’ing.” 

She put on her bonnet again, and 
M. Moise held his peace. 

With his chair tipped back and his 
eyes looking solemnly ahead, the big 
Monsieur watched his little Madame’s 
black bonnet as it bobbed and bobbed 
along, past the bake-oven in the lane, 
past the cow-pen gate, and on and on 
until it became but a blur bobbing along 
the pasture fence. As the black blur 
bobbed out of sight, M. Moise broke 
into a chuckle of deep appreciation: 

“ Mon Dieu, das great girl, das Bebe! 
Great girl, sho! ” 


[ 56 ] 


CHAPTER FOUR 

THE SHIVER IN THE SUNSHINE 

Madame Sam’s father and mother had 
loved each other — long before she was 
born, long afterwards — and Madame 
Sam’s eyes showed it, so dark they were, 
and so lighted by the living fire. Ma- 
dame Sam might, with her fine phys- 
ique, live to be a very old woman, but 
her eyes would never age. Out of a 
face withered like parchment, they 
would peer with a vitality undaunted — 
born of love. 

Madame Moise was thinking of her 
friend’s eyes, as her black bonnet bobbed 
along. When she thought of her friend’s 
wrongs Madame always thought of her 
friend’s eyes — of that sweet beauty 
dreaming forever in their depths, and 
[ 57 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 


the thought of it added greater heat to 
her indignation. 

“ And I know, me,” she said aloud, ‘‘ I 
know she is going do like he say. I know 
das. Ma foi! I wish to know me, for 
what a man wants to be scholard like 
das.” 

As she spoke, a vision of the old man, 
gaunt, pathetic, stooped by ineffectual 
toil, rose before her, but Madame Moise 
fortified her resolution, promising her- 
self pluckily: 

“ I ’m going say to Sara what ’t is 
I t’ink. Mais oui, ’tis right das she 
make Marie Micou pay her for what 
she do for her. And, me, I am going to 
say das.” 

Madame’s bonnet bobbed faster and 
faster. She was fairly out of breath by 
the time she reached the Santerre gate, 
but she caught all her breath in again 
with a gasp as she looked at the gallery. 
Marie, who had been sewing there (on 
[ 58 ] 


The Shiver in the Sunshine 

Sunday!) had arisen at her approach and 
was looking at her with black eyes like 
a flame. Like a flame, yes, but like a 
flame that quivered. Was it fear? 

“Ma foil” said Madame, then she 
greeted kindly; 

‘‘Bon jour, Marie. Comme-^a-va? ” 

“ Bien, merci. Et toi?” Marie re- 
plied, but though she stuck bravely to 
her ’Cajan bon-ton, Marie also glanced 
eagerly along the hue of retreat that lay 
open to her, and in a breath had slipped 
into it, saying: 

“ I will tell Madame.’’ 

“ S’il vous plait,” Madame Moise said 
with her best air. She looked after 
Marie with reflective eyes; 

“ I wish to know, me, if she have head 
— or not? If she ain’t got head, I don’t 
want to say not’ing. No! Maybe ’tis 
das how scholard t’ink. Me, I ain’t 
fought — if she ain’t got head — ” 

If such was the case, M. Santerre’s 
[ 59 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


course was indeed justified. Not on 
Bayou Bienvieu was there a being so 
brutal as to demand scot or lot of the 
weak-minded ones. Madame Moise, alive 
and alert always, was not hard-hearted. 
When Madame Sam had come out with 
some work in her hands and given cor- 
dial greeting, Madame put aside her 
first intention and opened with a tenta- 
tive question: 

‘‘ I hear, me, you going keep das 
Marie Micou wit’ you all time?” 

“ Mais oui,” Madame Sam assured 
cordially. “She come; she say she want 
stay.” 

“ She look like nice girl,” Madame 
Moise commented. “ And she can work, 
maybe? ” 

“ She is a nice girl,” Madame Sam 
said, and then she shrugged her lips, 
and her eyebrows, and her shoulders, 
and shook her head. “ She can’t cook 
much, no.” 


[ 60 ] 


The Shiver in the Sunshine 

“Can’t cook! Ma foil Before, I 
ain’t never hear of girl das can’t cook.” 

“ An’ me eit’er,” Madame Sam agreed 
cordially. “ Mais Marie, she can’t cook 
much. Et, Camille!” she confided, — 
“ she can’t wash ’t all.” 

Madame Moise slipped up on to the 
front edge of her chair: 

“ Sara,” she whispered, “ you reckon 
she ’s got head, maybe? ” 

Madame Sam dropped both hands 
into the pan of beans: 

“I don’t know. Holy Mot’er! some- 
time I t’ink yes; sometime I t’ink no. 
But, ah, heaven! she can sew! Me, I 
wish you to see how she sew. Two dollar 
and fifty cents for one mouchoir! And 
she tell me yes, she can make it in two 
week! And seem like it make her glad 
to sew. When I fetch her some work 
from dose Mesdames on Black Bayou 
— Oh, she was proud! She t’ank me so 
much. And she say, ‘Oh, Madame! if 
[ 61 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


I make dis nice you will fetch me some 
more — s’il vous plait! S’il vous plait! ’ 
And when I tell her ‘ Oui, me/ — ah, she 
was proud some more. And she do das 
work nice. ’T is pretty! My Josephine 
and Felicie dey watch and watch, and 
dey say : ‘ Oh, mamma ! Why ’t is we 
can’t do some work so pretty like das? ’ ” 
“ Maybe ’t is dey can learn,” Madame 
Moise put in keenly. 

“Dey been try,” Madame Sam said, 
but she did not say it very cheerfully. 
Even her stout cheer was not proof 
against the dismal failure her daughters 
had made of that trying; and as she 
spoke now her stove seemed to be farther 
away than it had ever been. 

“ ’T would be fine for you if dey could 
learn,” Madame Moise said in warm 
sympathy for the unsaid sorrow. 

“Yes,” said Madame Sam, and then 
the heartache came forth, smiling, but a 
bit sad in the eyes : 

[ 62 ] 


The Shiyee in the Sunshine 

“ I could get stove den, maybe.” 

Madame Moise slipped farther toward 
the edge of her chair: 

“Voila. Maybe you will get stove 
yet. I hear me you going get das 
little pan you been wish to get for so 
long.” 

Madame Sam broke into glad laugh- 
ter: 

“ Mais oui; I ’m going have das pan. 
And first time I bake some cornbread in 
it, I ’m going send you piece.” 

Madame Moise echoed the merry peal : 

“ Merci! ” Then she grew grave with 
a serious question: 

“You going get right round pan, 
Sara; or, you going get little long pan, 
maybe? ” 

Eh bien, here was a perplexity the two 
Mesdames might well twist and turn till 
sundown. And with such a zest did they 
return to it again and again, that the 
day grew late, and Madame Moise went 
[ 63 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 


home at last, leaving unsaid all the savage 
things she had come to say. 

It was an omission that Madame Moise 
confessed to Monsieur but justified by 
saying: 

‘‘ You know somet’ing, cher? Das 
Marie Micou, I don’t believe, me, she ’s 
got head, no ! ” 

M. Moise considered it during sup- 
per, and afterwards too; and yet when 
Madame came to sit by him while he 
smoked his cigarette, he could only take 
his eyes from the far-away pine tops 
with a doubtful shake of his head, saying : 

“ I don’t know, me, if she ’s got head 
or not.” 

There was one member of the Moise 
household who expressed no doubt as 
to the presence of a head on Marie’s 
sweetly sloping shoulders, and that was 
Aluin — their solid six-foot son, — their 
only boy. 

Many and deep were the reasons why 
[ 64 ] 


The Shiver in the Sunshine 

Aluin should be cherished by his par- 
ents with an especial tenderness. He 
was not, in the eyes of the Bayou, their 
only son. His brother, their first born, 
had died in all the beauty of his baby- 
hood; and the buoyancy of the parents’ 
youth, its boastful strength, had been 
buried with their baby boy. The slow, 
wistful years that followed brought to 
Monsieur and Madame at last a baby 
girl, very dainty, very dignified. They 
called her Camille and loved her — and 
waited. And again the years were kind 
and gave another girl, one that grew to 
be big-souled and faithful. They called 
her Marie, and Madame loved her with 
pride and tenderness because she was so 
like her father. And then the big Mon- 
sieur and his little Madame waited, wist- 
fully, patiently, for fifteen years. Ca- 
mille was married; Marie engaged to be 
married, before the boy they prayed 
for, came, — came to the amazement of 
5 [65 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


everybody on the Bayou save Madame 
Moise. 

“ Ain’t I been ask Mary to give me 
boy? ” the little Madame had cried joy- 
ously. “ Ain’t I been make my Aves 
every day for nineteen years? And 
voila, my Aluin!” 

M. Moise had said nothing in the 
midst of all the congratulations and the 
merriment, but in the silence that came 
after he had said hungrily to his Ma- 
dame: 

“ Das boy we got, he look now just 
like he look den.” 

And it was this that had locked Aluin 
so closely into his father’s heart. He 
was to him the other little chap come 
back again. Always the little lost one 
come again. He was very quiet about 
it, was the big Monsieur. Not even his 
Madame knew how it was with him 
until one day when Aluin was sick with 
measles, very sick, and her stoutly set, 
[ 66 ] 


The Shiver in the Sunshine 

well balanced Monsieur dropped his head 
into her lap with a moan: 

“ Bebe, I believe, me, I will go dig me 
grave and get ready for die. I can’t 
stand to lose him again. No! I can’t 
stand to lose him again.” 

Madame had cried over him ; cried for 
him; all a woman may do for a man’s 
anguish. For her own anguish she had 
prayed meekly to the pitying Mother in 
heaven. 

And now it was this Aluin, coveted by 
every Monsieur and Madame who had 
a daughter to be married, smiled at by 
all the girls, envied by all the boys, this 
pet and pride and hero, who had decided 
for himself that Marie Micou “ had 
head.” 

Marie was, indeed, beautiful with that 
glimmer of Italian blood in the glow of 
’Cajan beauty. But more than her 
beauty was the appeal made by her 
strange loneliness. The pathos of it 
[ 67 ] 


went to Aluin’s heart, and it was that 
he thought of whenever he heard her 
name. 

Upon the pause left by his father’s 
doubtfulness, Aluin spoke now from his 
place on the step: 

“ Mamma, you reckon when Madame 
Sam get her little pan she ’s going kiss 
das stranger girl good-night, maybe? ” 

“ Ma foi, Aluin! I reckon she kiss 
her good-night now.” 

Aluin shook his head: 

“ No, Felicie tell me. She say dere 
ain’t nobody kiss Marie good-night. 
And she say Marie tell her she ain’t got 
no papa and she ain’t got no mamma.” 

“ Pauvre bebe,” Madame cried softly. 

Monsieur said huskily: 

“ Sho, sho,” and without stopping to 
consider it he asked his madame: “ And 
when you go dere to-day, you kiss her? 
No?” 

“ No,” said Madame, and, in a rage 

[ 68 ] 


The Shiver in the Sunshine 

of regret, she began to defend her 
conduct : 

“ I did n’t have chance for kiss her, 
cher. Didn’t have chance ’t all. She 
make me bow and she say, ‘ I tell Ma- 
dame,’ and she dive in house. I did n’t 
have chance ’t all.” 

“ I reckon everybody should be kind 
wit’ her — kind as dey can,” Monsieur 
observed gently. 

“ Mais oui,” Madame agreed. ‘‘ ’T is 
so I t’ink aussi. But me, I did n’t have 
chance — she go dive in house so quick. 
Ma f oi ! I never did see girl dive in house 
so quick like das! ” 

Aluin spoke up deliberately: 

‘‘ If any boy on Bayou tease her, he ’s 
going have to lick me, or he’s going 
have to take licking.” 

“ Sho, sho!” 

M. Moise said it slowly, but to the 
bottom of his being he was tingling with 
pride in his boy. 


[ 69 ] 


Marie of Arc ad y 


Madame was herself again with a 
hearty: 

“ Ma foi, Aluin! I never did see boy 
so like his papa,” and then broke into 
merry laughter because of the flush she 
had brought to Monsieur’s broad face. 

And so in a glow, with wet eyes and 
laughter, the parents pledged themselves 
to many a weary hour and heartache of 
wretchedness, not dreaming that they 
pledged it, sitting so happily together 
in the evening light. 

For a week the world that was Bien- 
vieu went on as usual — brave and glad 
and beautiful. It was L’Un Paul who 
sent the first shiver through the serenity 
of that sunny atmosphere, and his man- 
ner of doing it w^as all L’Un’s own. 

The teacher had made a rule: books, 
slates, and pencils should not be dropped 
on the floor. If anybody broke this rule, 
it was “ keep your seat at recess.” On the 
Friday following Madame Moise’s call 
[ 70 ] 


The Shiver in the Sunshine 

Upon Madame Sam, in the middle of the 
afternoon session, a book fell, loudly, 
to the floor. And L’Un’s voice rang like 
an echo to the bang the book made: 

“ ’T was Marie Micou drop book!” 

The teacher looked down the room to 
the desk where the twins, L’Un and 
L’Autre, were seated together. L’Un 
was standing in his seat, L ’Autre, more 
solemn-visaged than ever, was wagging 
his blond head in earnest negation. 

‘‘ I don’t do not’ing, me,” he muttered, 
anxiously meeting the teacher’s eye, “ I 
don’t do not’ing. I don’t do not’ing, 
me; I don’t do not’ing — ” 

L’Un faced round on him sternly: 

“And me eit’er! I don’t do not’ing! 
’T is Marie Micou drop book! ” 

“ ’T was not Marie Micou drop 
book!^^ 

The denial came like a blow, and 
Aluin Moise stepped out upon the floor 
and faced the teacher. “ L’Un tells lie! ” 
[ 71 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


At that, Herbert, L’Un’s big brother, 
high-headed, high-spirited, was out on 
the floor also, his eyes blazing. 

“ L’Un don’t tell lie,” he declared, 
and his voice rang like a challenge, — 
eh bien, like a cry also! A lie was a 
bitter thing to Herbert Paul. His father 
was so great a liar that the Bayou had 
nicknamed him ‘‘ Le Menteur,” and 
since babyhood Herbert’s spirit had suf- 
fered beneath the black reproach. With 
all the fervor of his boyhood he had 
urged it upon his little brothers never to 
lie. He could not, would not, believe 
that L’Un was lying now. 

Aluin folded his large arms calmly: 

“ If L’Un say Marie Micou drop 
book, he lie; and if any man wants to 
fight, he can come to me and get aU he 
wants.” 

Marie’s head went down on her desk 
with a sobbing wail: 

“Oh, mais non, mais non! AU time 
[ 72 ] 


The Shiver in the Sunshine 



’t is de troub’. And, me, I don’t wish — 
non ! I don’t wish — I will stay de re- 
cess; I will drop de book; mais not to 
make de troub’. Non, non, non!” 

Aluin’s face darkened at the sound of 
that sobbing. He stepped forward with 
a long step, towering above the slender, 
dauntless Herbert. But at the sight of 
his idolized older brother in such peril, 
little L’Autre’s voice escaped him in a 
scream of terror: 

“ Look! Herbert’s book on floor! ” he 
shrieked. “Look! Herbert’s book] on 
floor!” 

L’Un whirled upon him like a fury: 

“Ferme! Godamit, I was watch for 
chance to pick it up ! ” 

A stillness came, sharp as the catching 
of a breath, and then breaking the still- 
ness came the laughter of Felicie San- 
terre, merry, rocking with fun, bubbling 
over with the ridiculousness of it. At 
the sound of that laughter the school 
[ 73 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

must grin and giggle; the teacher look 
less indignantly outraged. And yet, the 
black eyes, for all their smiling, were 
very busy, — flashing from the speller 
that had slipped from Herbert’s desk 
while he was busy writing, to Aluin, 
still standing, to Marie, still sobbing. 
That is, all but two pair of eyes in the 
school were looking at these things ! 
Herbert, hurt, shocked, angry, was star- 
ing at L’Un; while L’Un, scared, smil- 
ing unashamed, was looking at Herbert. 
He had lied to save his brother, and 
though that same brother might lick him 
for doing it, L’Un would do it again 
to save him again if the chance offered. 
So said the lift of L’Un’s head! But 
before the school could take note of this, 
voila, Felicie had suddenly stopped 
laughing and gone to studying. The 
smile died out of the eyes of the children 
as they looked at her, — out of the 
teacher’s eyes also. Eh bien, it would 
[ 74 ] 


The Shiver in the Sunshine 

be many a long day before Felicie would 
laugh again like that. 

The teacher began to say sharply what 
she thought of the whole wild break, and 
the school listened, meek, courteous; but 
not a pupil heard one word of that in- 
dignant speech. From Aluin’s back, to 
Marie’s head, and Felicie’s bent face, 
the black eyes flashed, and flashed again. 
Let the teacher talk. 

“Got no head?” L’Un might de- 
clare it, hut he would And neither boy 
nor girl to agree with him now in his 
estimate of Marie Micou. She was no 
longer a stranger, a child of mystery, 
a girl who cried. She was Aluin Moise’s 
girl. Let the truth dawn in the older 
heads of the Bayou as slowly as maybe, 
the school knew. And some were won- 
dering what Felicie Santerre would do, 
and if she would stay good friends with 
Marie; and some were wondering what 
Marie herself would do in this, her day 
[ 75 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

of distinction ; and one and all were 
complacently recalling every little kind- 
ness they had shown to Marie Micou 
when she was only a waif from nowhere 
— everybody but L’Un was doing that. 

L’Un stuck manfully to his own opin- 
ions and said openly what he thought 
of Aluin’s choice, — said it dry-eyed and 
disdainful, with a shrug of his stinging 
shoulders : 

“ C’est bien, mon frere! you can lick 
me for lie if you want; but, me, I t’ank 
God you ain’t fool like Aluin Moise is.” 

‘‘ Aluin ain’t fool,” Herbert reproved. 

L’Un shrugged again: 

“Ain’t fool, ha? You know for why 
he don’t fetch das Marie Micou’s book 
home for her? Voila, she ain’t got some 
books for fetch.” 


[76] 


CHAPTER FIVE 

A MATTER OF MONEY 

The day on which Marie was elected 
to a seat in the high places, and L’Un 
got a licking for lying, was Friday. So 
it was the next day that Madame Sam 
went to deliver the finished handkerchief 
to the Mesdames on Black Bayou, and 
to receive the ten cents due to her for 
doing it. As Madame Sam swung along 
with her skirts tucked up, and her shoes 
in her hand, she thought of the pan she 
was to buy on her way home. It was 
to be a round pan and very small, and 
it was to be all her own. Yet Madame 
was not so happy as she had thought 
to be, because Felicie was not well. She 
had come home from school the day 
before looking tired and disheartened. 
[ 77 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Madame had given her some citronelle 
tea and made her stay in out of the 
sun, but the little girl did not seem to 
be much benefited by the treatment. 

“ Maybe,” Madame Sam sighed as 
she strode along, maybe ’t is she ’s 
been growing.” 

Felicie had, indeed, during the past 
twenty-four hours, been growing; had 
lain awake all through the night to do it ; 
but Madame, her mother, knew nothing 
of that. She swung on, the tall, bony 
Madame, swung on swiftly, her thoughts 
divided between the little girl that was 
and the little pan that was to be. 

“ If she don’t get glad when she see 
das pan, me, I give her some more tea. 
Maybe ’twas not hot enough, maybe 
’twas das?” Madame pondered it, step- 
ping on in long, springy steps, and 
lightly, like a deer that walks on fallen 
forest leaves. 

“ Maybe ’t was das,” she decided, and 
[ 78 ] 


A Matter of Money 


then found herself fronted by another 
perplexity; 

“ I don’t know, me, if I should make 
some cornbread first time in das pan, or 
if I should bake some ’tater pone.” 

This was a delicious uncertainty, and 
it held Madame smiling through her 
bargaining with the ailing sisters, made 
her gay with Bat at the store, and 
brought her home from her long tramp 
beaming. 

M. Santerre was sitting on the steps, 
so was Felicie and Josephine. Herbert 
Paul was there also, waiting for it to 
grow late enough for him to be left 
alone with his Josephine. 

“Oil Marie?” Madame asked of the 
group. 

Josephine shrugged. 

“ I reckon she ’s round to well wash’ 
her hands,” she said, and called; 

“Vien, Marie! Mamma say ‘vien 
ici!’” 


[ 79 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Marie came quickly, drying her hands 
on her apron: 

“ Here your money is, Marie,” Ma- 
dame Sam said kindly, and held out to 
her the handful of bright silver. 

Marie drew back sharply and dropped 
her hands. 

“ ’T is not for me,” she said. 

‘‘ Mais oui, ’t is for you. ’T is for 
das mouchoir you make.” 

“ ’T is not for me,” said Marie again, 
and her eyes went flashing in flre-bright 
appeal from face to face. 

“ Mais oui,” Madame Sam insisted. 
She stood tall and rigid in the slanting 
light; her shoes still in her left hand, 
her pan under her arm, her right hand 
holding forth the silver. Under her 
black bonnet the sun’s rays struck and 
shone redly on her earnest face. “ ’T is 
your money, ma fille,” she insisted 
kindly. 

Marie shrank back, timid, proud, her 

[ 80 ] 


A Matter of Money 

dark eyes wet and baffled-looking, but 
her hands indignantly sweeping away 
the proffered payment. 

“Non, non, non! ’T is not for me. 
Quoi! Tu parlerais comme — You 
give me bed and bread — You — ” 
Marie looked appealingly from face to 
face for comprehension and fell back 
upon barren denial: 

“’Tis not for me, no! ’Tis not for 
me.” 

It was time for the scholard to take 
a hand, and he took it with a scholarly 
exposition : 

“ Voila, Marie. What Madame give 
you, ’t is not’ing. Already she have bed 
and bread. ’T is not like she go get 
das and give it you. If you ain’t here, 
she have it. If you here, she have it 
aussi. ’T is not like she pay money for 
give you bed, or for give you bread. 
Already she have it before you come. 
But you, vou work for make mouchoir 
/ • [ 81 ] 


Makie of Arcady 

and you get money for mouchoir and 
void! Fargent est pour vous. And you 
can take your money and go to store 
and buy you something — some dress, 
some ribbon, some shoes maybe. Den 
when fourt’ Sunday come you can go to 
church, and be fine like ot’er girls. And 
won’t das be nice, ha? ” 

Marie’s reply was a denial and a cry: 

“Non, non, non! ’T is not for me. 
’T is for Madame.” 

“ Mais, ma bebe,” Madame took up 
the argument, “ you must do like Mon- 
sieur say. You must take money and 
go to store and make your buy. Den 
you be fine like I’autres.” 

Marie’s head went down in despair: 

“ I don’t want,” she sobbed, “ I don’t 
want! ” 

“ You don’t want to be fine like I’au- 
tres?” Madame questioned gently, but 
dumbfounded. “You don’t wish — ” 
She turned for assistance to Josephine, 
[ 82 ] 


A Matter of Money 


to Felicie; but they were staring in 
helpless amazement at Marie Micou, 
and Herbert Paul was staring also. A 
girl who did not want pretty dresses 
and ribbons was enough to make the 
little brown bayou itself stare. And as 
the young people stared, they had to 
remember what L’Un had said, had to 
remember also that though L’Un was 
little and lean and only eight years 
old, he was shrewd — uncannily shrewd. 
Madame Sam saw what was in their 
faces and her own face grew grave: 

‘‘ Voila, cherie,” she coaxed. “ Here 
your money is, and I wish das you take 
it. If you don’t. Monsieur will go to 
M. Moise and tell him how ’t is.” 

Marie’s sobbing stopped short. 

‘‘Go to M. Moise?” she cried. 

“ Mais oui!” 

“ And what M. Moise say do, ’t is das 
we do, ha? ” 

“Mais oui.” 


[ 83 ] 


Marie of Arcady 



'‘And where ’tis M. Moise live, if 
you please? ” 


“ He live down Bayou, close by 
church/’ 

“ By church? Bien! ’T is me will go 
to M. Moise!” 

“Oh, mais non! Marie! Oh, mais 
non! You will be ’way late.” 

Madame Sam’s deep lungs shouted 
the warning in vain. Marie was run- 
ning through the lane, past the canefield 
almost ready for the knife, past the half- 
dug potato patch. In a moment, almost, 
she had left the Santerre farm behind 
her and was racing down the road that 
ran through darkening branch and lone- 
some barrens. And so swiftly did she 
follow it, that before the branch could 
grow a shade darker, the barrens a 
thought more lonesome, she had left 
them alike to their darkness and their 
loneliness, and was panting up the slope 
to the Moise house. 

[ 84 ] 


A Matter of Money 


Madame and Monsieur were sitting 
on the gallery when they caught sight 
of the little figure flying through the 
dusk: 

“ Ma foi! ” said Madame, “ I wish to 
know who ’tis come so late, and come 
in so much hurry, maybe? ” 

Monsieur sat looking steadily at the 
figure, little more than a shape in the 
gathering gloom. When he was sure 
of it he said slowly in reply to Ma- 
dame’s multiplying speculations: 

“ ’T is Marie Micou.” 

“ Marie Micou,’’ Madame uttered. 
“ I wish to know, me, what — Oh, 
cher, you reckon Madame Sam send her? 
Late like dis? But no, she won’t send 
her so late. She would send somebody 
wit’ her. Cher, you reckon she ’s run 
away from Madame Sam? Cher — ” 
But Marie had come to a panting 
stop at the steps, and Madame must 
remember her manners. 

[ 85 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

“ Bon soir, Marie,” she greeted brightly, 
“ won’t you come in house? ” 

“ Non merci. I wish to tell M. Moise 
— et toi, Madame — how ’t is. Madame 
Sam say what M. Moise say do, das 
it is to do. Et voila! Madame Sam, 
she take me in house, she give me bed, 
she give me bread, she call me ‘ Ma 
fille ’ — all time she call me das. And 
me, I ain’t got not’ing for give her — 
not’ing for do. Not’ing ’tall. I can’t 
cook for her; I can’t wash for her — I 
ain’t never know. So me, I make my 
ave a Marie — ‘ Let me do somet’ing 
for Madame Sam ’ — all time I make 
my ave like das. And voici, last week 
Holy Virgin hear my prayer. She send 
me mouchoir for make for Madame. 
And me, I was glad, ’t was money dey 
would pay to Madame for mouchoir. I 
make mouchoir, and mouchoir make 
money, and voila. But Madame Sam 
come wit’ money in her hand and say 
[ 86 ] 


A Matter of Money 

to me, ‘ L’argent est pour vous.’ Et 
Monsieur, aussi, he say, ‘ L’argent est 
pour vous.’ And me, I say, ‘ Non, non, 
non! It is not for me.’ And den Ma- 
dame Sam say, ‘ Monsieur will go see 
M. Moise.’ — Oh, Monsieur, je vous prie 
tell Madame it is for her, das money. 
Everyt’ing she have, she give me some; 
and me, I ain’t got not’ing to give her. 
Not’ing ’tall, till Holy Virgin send me 
mouchoir to make for money.” 

Monsieur said: 

“ Sho, sho,” then he arose courteously. 

“ I reckon, me,” he said thoughtfully. 
“ Better come on gallery and sit in 
chair.” 

Marie came up on the gallery, meekly 
obedient, and sat in a chair. Her eyes 
glowed, but with folded hands she waited 
patiently for the big Monsieur to speak. 

“ Das money,” M. Moise began, “ das 
money you get for mouchoir, it is for 


[87] 


Maeie of Aecady 


“ Mais non, Monsieur! Mais non!’’ 
Marie broke in eagerly. 

“ Sho, sho,” said Monsieur, and he 
considered it again, Madame, his wife, 
twisting her fingers, and snapping her 
toes, in a vain effort to hurry him. At 
last he put it very plainly to the plead- 
ing girl: 

“ If a man do work and get his pay 
for work he do, das money it is for him. 
And wit’ girl it is as wit’ man. Das 
money she get for work she do, das 
money is for her.” 

“ But Madame Sam! She give me 
bread, she give me bed,” Marie cried. 
“ What money I make, ’t is for her.” 

Monsieur considered it yet again: 

“ If,” he said weightily, ‘‘ if when you 
go to live wit’ Madame Sam you had say 
to her, ‘ Voila, Madame, you give me 
bread and bed, and me, I give you money 
I make ’ — den das money would be for 
her. But you ain’t say das, no? ” 

[ 88 ] 


A Matter of Money 

“ No,” Marie admitted unhappily, “ I 
ain’t say das, mais — ” 

But at this juncture Madame Moise 
dashed into the game: 

“Oh, cher! If Marie make money 
wit’ mouchoir, it is her money. And if 
it is her money she can do wit’ it like 
she wish. She can burn it up, maybe. 
She can t’row it in Bayou, maybe. And 
if she can t’row it or burn it, she can 
make buy wit’ it. Buy what she wish — 
buy stove for Madame Sam, maybe.” 

“ Buy stove,” Marie cried. “ Mais, 
me, I don’t know if she wish for 
stove — ” 

“ But me, I know she wish for stove,” 
Madame Moise assured briskly. “ Be- 
fore she have baby she tell me, ‘ Tudieu! 
when I get rich I will have stove first 
t’ing.’ Das baby, he is grown man, 
wit’ boy big like dis, but Madame Sam 
ain’t got her stove yet. It is for eight 
dollars you can buy stove. Not any 
[ 89 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


pots, no! De pots is more. Mais 
’tis — ” Madame was warming to a 
price list, when Marie, who had risen 
eagerly, dropped back to her chair with 
a moan: 

“Eight dollar! And das money I 
get, ’t is only two dollar and fifty cents.’’ 

“ Mais voila, cherie,” Madame cheered 
thriftily. “ You can keep das money 
and make not’er mouchoir, and not’er 
again, till you have money for stove. 
And den! Ma foi! Dere won’t be 
woman on Bayou so proud like Madame 
Sam.” 

“ Dieu merci,” Marie cried. “ And 
Madame Sam she will be proud. Dieu 
merci. Ah, Madame, I t’ank you. Ah, 
I will sew. I will make de center, I 
will make de side. I will make many 
mouchoir, and I will buy pots. Dieu 
merci. I t’ank you, Madame. And 
Monsieur aussi.” 

Madame laughed out with a rush of 
[ 90 ] 


A Matter of Money 


wet merriment, and Monsieur said, 
‘‘ Sho, sho,” and added pointedly: 

“ But das money you make, ’t will be 
for you — ” 

Marie was up and off like a flash, 
while Madame cried after her in alarm: 

“ But wait, Marie. You better stay 
night wit’ me. ’Tis too late; ’tis too 
late — ” 

Marie dared not stop to hear lest the 
big Monsieur should spoil her chance to 
make Madame Sam proud. Proud, 
yes! And Marie, running, repeated the 
words of Madame Moise: 

‘‘Dere won’t be woman on Bayou so 
proud like das.” Ah, what a fine smart 
woman was Madame Moise! 

“ And maybe ’t will make Felicie glad 
aussi! ” 

How the night wind sang in the pine- 
trees! How merrily the frogs croaked 
in the flats! 

Back there on her front gallery Ma- 
[ 91 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

dame Moise was also hearing the night 
wind and the frogs. She wiped a quiver 
from her lips and cried to her big 
Monsieur: 

‘‘ T’ank God! Sara ’s going have das 
stove before she ’s dead.” 

“ Sho, sho,” said Monsieur, and added 
thoughtfully, “ I reckon, me, das Marie 
Micou ’s pretty nice little girl.” 

“ She fine! ” Madame cried. “ She ’s 
fine. Oh, I pray God, me, not’ing don’t 
happen to her till she buy stove for 
Sara! ” 

“ I don’t reckon dere anyt’ing going 
happen to her,” M. Moise submitted. 
“Dere ain’t not’ing ever happens to 
anybody on Bayou.” 

“ No,” Madame admitted, “ dere ain’t 
not’ing ever happens to anybody on 
Bayou. But das Marie Micou,” Ma- 
dame paused to fling her hands wide, 
“ she ’s different. Eh bien, and Marie 
Reneau! You ain’t forget das, cher?” 

[ 92 ] 


A Matter of Money 

Forget it! Could anybody on the 
Bayou ever forget how Victor Reneau’s 
l^retty young sister had run away with 
a man who sold bananas? — run away 
because she dared not tell her brother 
that she loved the man he disliked, lest 
in the blind rage that seizes a ’Cajan in 
his anger he should kill her lover as 
heedlessly as he would have killed a 
lizard! Run away and never dared to 
come back, the poor, pretty young girl! 
— banished from the Bayou forever. 

M. Moise shook his head slowly: 

“Das hurt Reneau bad, Bebe. And 
it hurt him yet,’’ he added with delib- 
erate emphasis, and turned his head 
toward her: 

“ ’T was last week I was down to 
store — me and Victor and Zeno Paul. 
Mon Dieu, das Zeno, he don’t never 
t’ink what ’tis he is going say! While 
we were stand dere on gallerie, one of 
dose banana fellows come ’long. And 
[ 93 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


you know what ’tis Zeno say? — loud 
as he can say — ‘Voila, banana man! 
Watch out, watch out he don’t steal girl 
from somebody.’ ” 

“Ah,” Madame uttered, “And M. 
Reneau, he hear das ? ” 

“Mais oui, he hear! He was stand 
right dere. He go down steps quick 
and get on horse, but I see, me, he was 
hurt. I said to Zeno: 

“ ‘ Mon Dieu, Zeno, for why you can’t 
t’ink what ’t is you say ! ’ ” 

“ Mais,” Madame dashed in briskly, 
“ M. Paul, he don’t never t’ink. Never 
t’ink ’tall.” 

“ But he should t’ink, Bebe. Reneau 
has been kind wit’ him — he ’s all time give 
him job. And das hurt Victor for him to 
say t’ing like das. Hurt him, sho.” 

It was, and always had been, Madame 
Moise’s opinion that M. Reneau de- 
served a hurting. Her sympathies had 
ever been with the little girl that had 
[ 94 ] 


A Matter of Money 


been scared into exile. She said with 
conviction: 

“ Mais, cher, M. Reneau was hard on 
das little sister he have. Ma foi, ’tis 
for girl to say who ’tis she will make 
marry wit’. ’T is not for son frere.” 

“ Sho, sho,” said Monsieur. Then he 
considered it: 

‘‘ He had raised her like she was child 
wit’ him. She was baby when dere 
mot’er die and Reneau, he was man wit’ 
beard on face.” 

‘‘ Mais,” Madame insisted, “ he was 
hard wit’ her when she wished to make 
marry wit’ banana man.” 

M. Moise could not deny it. Reneau 
had been hard. So he said: 

“ ’T is long time since she go, eh, 
Bebe?” 

‘‘ ’T is fifteen years,” Madame told 
him. ‘‘Aluin was year old when she 
go.” And she sighed softly, “ Eh 


CHAPTER SIX 


THE SONG OF THE NIGHT 



Marie Micou did not go home alone. 
On the very first slope a figure loomed 
through the dusk, coming up where she 
was going down. A figure in the dusk 
may hold dreadful possibilities — -may, 
indeed, be bent under a bundle! Marie 
stopped, a start of fear. Also, a figure 
in the dusk may promise exquisite 
pleasure, may be dark-eyed and deli- 
cious. Aluin stopped, a start of delight. 
His voice came deeply, deliberately: 

“ Bon soir.” 

“ C’est Aluin,” Marie breathed. Aloud 
she said stiffly: 

“ Bon soir.” 

Aluin climbed the slope: 

“’Tis late for you to pass through 
[ 96 ] 


The Song of the Night 

woods by yourself,” he said, and stopped 
at her side, 

“ ’T is not late,” Marie declared. 

Aluin glanced up at the stars, shining 
brightly, then down at the hollow, black 
as night: 

“ 'T is too late for you to be ’broad 
by yourself,” he said. “ I ’m going walk 
home wit’ you, me. I don’t wish das 
you pass t’rough woods by yourself.” 

“ I can go by myself,” Marie told him 
straightly. 

Aluin smiled with quick pleasure. 
This was a new method of treatment. 
Hitherto, whenever he had placed him- 
self at a girl’s side the girl had — eh 
bien, she had not ordered him away. 
His mother’s only boy; his father’s lost 
boy that had come again; the pride 
and darling of the Bayou. The big, 
quiet Aluin was perhaps a little spoilt, 
— had been fed too much sugar and not 
enough of life’s sharper savors. He 
7 [ 97 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


tasted of those savors now with relish 
— and laughed a little. 

“ I know, me, you can go by your- 
self. I know how ’tis wit’ Mademoi- 
selle Marie Micou; dere ain’t girl on 
Bayou can take care of herself so fine 
like she can. Mais, maybe ’tis if you 
take my arm you won’t stumble so 
much.” 

“ Non merci! ” 

‘‘ Arretez. ’T is hole you going walk 
in! Why you don’t take my arm?” 

“ I can walk by myself.” 

“ Mais oui? And maybe ’t is you can 
break neck by yourself, ha? ” 

Marie raised troubled eyes to heaven. 
He must not walk with her. He must 
not! He was for Felicie. But the 
heavens could give her no help. There 
was a pale young moon up there — oh, 
very young! little more than an edge 
of light, and it seemed to be fleeing in 
fear from a cloud that followed it like 
[ 98 ] 


The Song of the Night 

a threat! An ugly cloud, all squat and 
bowed together like an old man bent 
under a bundle! Marie’s eyes fled from 
the ugly cloud to the big fellow at her 
side. How strong and kind he was, and 
she — she was afraid. 

“ Me, I ’m going walk home wit’ you,” 
Aluin announced deliberately. But he 
knew that he could not go if she for- 
bade him. 

Marie did not forbid him. Her only 
reply was to walk so fast that Alu- 
m’s shoulders began to swing to his 
stride as he kept his place beside her. 
But he did keep his place; and with a 
ready hand to save, and many a word 
of warning, he guided her down the 
slope and through the water-worn hol- 
low. 

“Where ’tis you been abroad?” he 
asked as they left the dark branch and 
came out into the more open barrens, 
“You been far, maybe?” * , 

[ 99 ] 


Maeie of Arcady 

“ I been to your papa’s house,” Marie 
told him briefly. 

“ Quoi! ” Aluin uttered, then quickly, 
‘‘You been talk wit’ mamma?” 

“Yes,” Marie said. 

“Yes?” Aluin repeated. Something 
warm and sweet seemed to stoop from 
the stars to touch him, and at the touch 
a glad feeling ran through him, making 
him happy. Aluin wondered at it. He 
had been happy before — many times 
before, — when their cow had twin 
calves; when he found the steer that 
had strayed; when he killed his first 
deer; happiest of all when his little 
mare had won the race; happy many 
times and for many reasons. But never 
before had he been happy just because 
a girl had talked to his mother. Nor 
had he ever before been happy like this. 
When his mare won he had shouted 
until his throat hurt. He did not want 
to shout now. He did not want to talk 
[ 100 ] 


The Song of the Night 



— not even to Marie. If he could have 
stopped breathing he would have been 
glad. Along he swung at Marie’s side, 
guarding her, but the stars stooping 
over the pine trees were not more silent. 
The darkness deepened in the woods as 
the wonder deepened in his breast. Fra- 
grant and fine and full of half -thought 
things, the night lapped them round. 
Ah, if it might but be this way forever, 
the silence and the woods and Marie 
Micou ! But even as he thought it, there 
came to Aluin a sharp and sudden sense 
of loss. He stopped, turned around, 
peered into the night, called into the 
silence an eager whisper: 

“Marie! Marie!” 

The darkness gave back to his peer- 
ing only darkness ; the night wind 
brought in answer only his whisper’s 
echoed faintness. She had been there 
and she was not there. Silently as a 
shadow sinks into deeper shadows Marie 
[ 101 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


had slipped from his side. Without a 
warning stir of breath or clothing, with- 
out the patter of a footfall. 

“ Mon Dieu, I wish to know if she 
have wings.” Standing still with his 
perplexity, baffled, staring into the night, 
Aluin saw a broad lane of light flung 
into the darkness straight ahead. The 
red lane streamed through the shadows 
for an instant, then all was dark again. 
Aluin knew what that meant. Some- 
body had opened and shut a kitchen 
door. He roused and took notice of his 
whereabouts. It was true, he was very 
near to the Santerre house. 

“ Eh bien,” he said resolutely, “ I 
reckon, me, I can know if she got home 
all right, maybe.” 

Madame Sam was sitting on the gal- 
lery. She had been sitting there since 
dark, waiting and watching for Marie 
to come. 

Aluin gave her a courteous “ Bon 

[ 102 ] 


The Song of the Night 

soir and asked his question — not an 
easy one for a boy of sixteen to ask: 

“ Has Marie Micou got home yet, 
Madame? ” 

“ Mais oui,” Madame told him. ’T is 
just now I hear her come in.” 

“ Merci,” said Aluin. He turned 
quickly and made for the gate; but 
alone with the night again he began to 
smile. 

Madame Sam did not begin to smile. 
Felicie was her favorite daughter. Fe- 
licie and Aluin had always been good 
friends. And voila. Aluin had come 
asking about Marie Micou — had come 
for that and for nothing more. 

“ And me,” Madame moaned, “ I give 
Felicie citronelle teal I give her citron- 
elle tea! ” Madame Sam put her hands 
together in a rage of compassion, all the 
woman in her aching to the ache in her 
little girl’s heart: 

“ And me, I give her tea! ” Her worn 
[ 103 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


hands wiped away the wistful tears, but 
they came again. What could she give 
if tea availed not? 

“ Not’ing, not’ing,” Madame admitted. 
For such a hurt there is no salve save 
time. 

“ ’T is only God can give de time,” 
she said, “and He give it — slow, 
yes.” 

Eh bien, there was no hurt in Aluin’s 
heart as he swung swiftly along his 
homeward way. Often he smiled — the 
smile that slips slowly to the lips, trem- 
bles there, draws away, comes deepen- 
ing back — but only once did he laugh 
aloud. 

“And she run away! ’Twas quick 
how she do das. Quick, sho!” 

Aluin was not thinking. He was 
tasting life in quick, shy sips and wak- 
ing to the sweetness of it. Out there all 
alone with the wood’s noises and the 
night it was delicious. Yet he did not 
[ 104 ] 


The Song of the Night 

linger with delight. He walked so fast 
that in a little while the barrens had 
swept down to the hollow, the slope 
had climbed out of the dark, and he 
was nearing liis father’s gallery, was 
w^aking to a consciousness of the com- 
motion that reigned within his father’s 
gate. A voice strong, vibrant, reached 
him saying: 

“ Voila, Moise! You ain’t fool. You 
know like me — ” 

“ M. Reneau,” Aluin said, and began 
to think once more: 

“ I wish to know, me, what ’t is he 
want wit’ papa now. All time he go 
get in troub’, and den come trot to papa 
for pull him out.” 

This was not a very reverent reflec- 
tion. M. Reneau was his father’s life- 
long friend, and, also, he was the richest 
sheep-owner on the Bayou. But Aluin 
was a lord to-night, — a bit drunk with 
his lordship. He went up the steps to 
[ 105 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


a seat by his father like a man among 
men: 

“Bon soir, M. Reneau,” he greeted 
genially. “ ’T is nice night we have.” 

“ ’T is dark like devil, yes,” the sheep 
magnate told him promptly. 

M. Moise lifted his big head and 
looked abroad. 

“ Dark, sho,” he assented thoughtfully. 
“ Ha, Aluin, I reckon, me, you ain’t hear 
how ’tis?” 

“Non, papa; I ain’t hear not’ing,” 
Aluin told him cheerfully. “ What 
’t is?” 

“ You ain’t hear, no,” snorted the mag- 
nate. “ Old men hear bullfrog croak in 
swamp; but young man can’t hear not’- 
ing but bird sing in bushes.” Uncon- 
sciously, in his exasperation, M. Reneau 
made this acknowledgment of Aluin’s 
claim to manhood. M. Moise, in his per- 
plexity, also made acknowledgment, 
turning to the big fellow who but yester- 
[ 106 ] 


The Song of the Night 

day had been a boy as though he turned 
for counsel: 

‘‘ ’T is bad for Victor, here,” he said. 
“ Bad, sho. Man has bought das old 
place where American man start to 
build house.” 

“Bad!” Reneau took up stormily. 
“ But yes, ’t is bad. In t’ree mont’s 
’t will be winter ! My sheep dey have 
been trav’ t ’rough das place for fifteen 
years. ’T was safe way for dem to 
trav’. Now dis man go buy place. And 
first t’ing he going do, — ain’t it build 
fence? And my sheep, dey have to trav’ 
t’rough branch — Pardieu ! I ’m going 
lose hundred head of sheep dis winter. 
Ha, Moisei Ain’t das so? You ain’t 
fool. You know like me, ’tis bad 
branch. Bad for sheep.” 

“ Sho, sho,” said M. Moise, and after 
a thoughtful pause he summed up slowly: 

“Yes, sir; I reckon, me, das is ’bout 
right. Bad branch for sheep. Bad, sho.” 
[ 107 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


The magnate snapped a match and 
impatiently lit a cigarette. Strong, iras- 
cible man that he was, he knew that 
he could not hurry the big monsieur, 
and he knew, as every man and madame 
and little child on the Bayou knew, that 
none could help in time of trouble as 
M. Moise could help; nor would any 
other man so cheerfully carry his neigh- 
bor’s load. 

After a long pause M. Moise took up 
the talk again, saying thoughtfully: 

I reckon, me, I better go over dere 
Monday and see das man. He should 
build two fence dere, but I don’t know 
if he will wish to build two fence or 
not.” 

“No,” the magnate burst forth, “he 
worft wish to do das! You reckon dere 
is man in world going wish to build two 
fence if he ain’t got to do das. Me, I 
t’ink better go tell him he ’s got to do 
das.” 


[ 108 ] 


The Song of the Night 

M. Moise shook his head slowly: 

“ Mais he ain’t got to do das. ’T is 
his land, and if he don’t wish to leave 
lane, he ain’t got to leave lane. Das is 
law.” 

The magnate had reached this point 
in his argument just ten times before 
Aluin came. He got up now and stood 
towering in all his muscular height above 
his solid friend. 

“ My God, Moise! ” he said. 

From inside the house Aluin thought 
there came a sound as if his mother was 
struggling with smothered laughter, and 
he grinned in sympathy, safe under the 
cover of the night M. Reneau had found 
so dark. 

M. Moise said, “ Sho, sho,” and added: 
“ ’T is his land. Dere ain’t any law for 
make him leave lane if he don’t wish.” 

“ And you t’ink he ’s going wish to 
leave lane, maybe? ” Reneau asked dryly. 
Then burst forth in impatience: “Well, 
[ 109 ] 


Marie of Aecady 


me, I don't! Voila, Moise. If you and 
me and Jean Champetre don’t go down 
dere and put up stiff talk, das man ain’t 
going leave lane, no! We must tell him 
straight das he ’s got to leave lane.” 

“ Mais, he ain’t got,” Monsieur put 
in patiently. “ ’T is his land.” 

“Damne,” commented the magnate 
helplessly. 

M. Moise began over again. But M. 
Reneau interrupted hastily: 

“ I reckon, me, I better be going. 
Bon soir, Moise, Bon soir, Aluin.” 
And the sound of a running pony’s 
hoofs came to the two on the gallery as 
witness of the mood and manner of his 
going. 

Madame Moise popped out of the 
house like a bird out of a box. 

“Oh, cherl” she appealed. “How 
many time it is you have told Victor 
Reneau he should buy das place das cut 
his land in two? Ain’t it hundred times, 
[ 110 ] 


The Song of the Night 

maybe? But no! He don’t do like you 
say. He keep fool along, fool along. 
‘ I don’t reckon, me, somebody ’s going 
buy das place.’ ’T is das how he say. 
Et voila! Somebody buy das place! I 
t’ink, me, he have face to come beg you 
for help him wit’ troub’! If he had do 
like you tell him hundred times to do, 
he won’t have troub’.” 

“ Sho, sho. Mais, I don’t know, me, 
if ’t is hundred times I tell him das or 
not.” 

There was a thoughtful pause that 
even Madame could not interrupt, and 
M. Moise sighed heavily as he broke the 
pause, saying: 

“ And I don’t know, me, if das man 
is going wish to leave lane.” 

Aluin spoke up with interest: 

“ What man das is, ha, papa? ” 

M. Moise roused and turned to his 
boy: 

‘‘ ’T is man have bought das place 

[ 111 ] 


Maeie of Arcady 

where American start to build house. 
’T was long time ago. Camille was little 
t’ing den.” 

Aluin’s interest was for the present, 
and he put it briskly: 

“What kind of man he is, maybe, 
papa? ” 

“Dey say he is tough lot. Tough 
lot, sho. But, me, I don’t know if he 
is tough lot or not.” 


[ 112 ] 


CHAPTER SEVEN 


THE TOUGH LOT 

When Marie Micou, panting a little 
because of the swift race by which she 
had eluded Aluin, slipped into the San- 
terre kitchen she found the scholar alone, 
washing his feet in the shallow tub. 

He looked up with gentle inquiry: 

“ And you ask M. Moise, and he tell 
you, ‘ Oui, das money is for you ’? ” 

Marie stood before him with down- 
dropped eyes: 

“Mais oui. Monsieur. He tell me 
das money is for me.” 

‘‘Ajid das is right,” M. Santerre as- 
sented happily. “Yes, sir, certainly, 
sho. Das is right. M. Moise, he don’t 
never make mistake. De money, ’t is 
dere on shelf. I wish das you take it 
in your hand now, Marie.” 

8 [ H3 ] 


Marie of Aecady 


Marie took the money in her hand. 
The scholar continued kindly: 

“ One day next week Josephine or 
Felicie, dey will go wit’ you to store 
and you can make your buy, some rib- 
bon, some hat — ” 

Marie interrupted hastily; 

“ Mais non. Monsieur. M. Moise say 
I must make my buy, what ’t is I wish 
to buy — ” 

“ Certainly,” the scholar put in cour- 
teously, “ certainly, sho. You must buy 
what ’t is you wish to buy. Josephine 
or Felicie will go wit’ you next week.” 

“ I don’t wish to buy not’ing next 
week! Not’ing ’t all! ” 

M. Santerre took his feet out of the 
tub and said reassuringly: 

“Den voila! You don’t buy not’ing 
next week, not if you don’t wish to do 
das. Comme-9a?” 

Marie was escaping with this consent 
when Madame Sam came in. 

[ 114 ] 


The Tough Lot 


‘‘ You had some supper, Marie? ” she 
asked kindly. 

Marie was bent on getting away, and 
she backed to the door: 

“ Merci, Madame. I don’t wish some 
supper. I wish to go to bed.” 

“ You sick? ” 

“ Oh, mais non, Madame. Bon soir, 
Monsieur. Bon soir, Madame.” 

Madame Sam stood tall and strong in 
the flickering firelight until she heard 
the door of the shed-room creak in clos- 
ing, then she said: 

“ ’T was Aluin Moise fetch her home.” 

“Quoi!” uttered the scholar. In his 
amazement he put his feet back into the 
tub; in his perplexity he began to wash 
them vigorously. 

‘‘ Maybe ’t is his papa tell him do 
das,” he suggested. Madame was look- 
ing on wearily at the energetic foot- 
washing. 

“And if his papa send him, why he 
[ 115 ] 


Marie oe Arcady 


don’t fetch her to gate? Why he tell 
her good-night in lane? If you had hear 
him when he ask me if she get home all 
right. ’T was like he was sing,” she 
replied hopelessly, and added gently: 

“ ’T is two time you have wash your 
feet, cher.” 

“ Pardieu,” said M. Santerre. He 
got up and went tracking wetly around 
the room, Madame watching him in 
troubled abstraction: 

“ If ’t is towel you look for, cher,” she 
said finally, “ voila, ’t is in your hand.” 

M. Santerre looked at the towel he 
held, and sat down with it, saying: 

“Pardieu! I wish to know what 
Moise will do. Pardieu! I hear, me, 
Aluin was ready to make fight for 
Marie one day at school, but I never 
fought, me, ’twas das.” 

“What day das was?” Madame de- 
manded quickly. 

“What day?” the scholar questioned, 

[ 116 ] 


The Tough Lot 


looking up from the work in hand. 

What day? Friday? I believe, me, 
’twas Friday.” 

Madame uttered a sound, half inartic- 
ulate, of tender compassion: 

“ ’T was day I give her citronelle tea.” 

“ Ha? ” said the scholar, “ I ’m sorry 
for M. Moise, yes. ’T will be hard on 
him. Hard, sho. Et toi, cherie?” 

But Madame was thinking of another 
who would suffer — was suffering. She 
had no tenderness to spare for her neigh- 
bors just then. 

“ If M. Moise don’t wish Aluin to 
make marry wit’ Marie Micou he can 
tell him like das,” she pointed out briefly. 

M. Santerre shook his head. 

‘‘ He can tell him like das, yes. But 
what good das ‘ non ’ going do? Did n’t 
Reneau say non to his little sister when 
she wish to make marry wit’ das banana 
man? Oh, voici, cherie! When your 
papa did n’t wish for you to make marry 
[IIT] 


Marie of Arcady 


wit’ me, ain’t he tell you non and non 
and non? Mais das non, it ain’t do no 
good. If it was girl say non, yes. But, 
me,” he added profoundly, “ I don’t 
reckon Marie is going say non to 
Aluin.” 

“ Say non to Aluin Moise,” Madame 
uttered. “ Ma foi, dere ain’t girl on 
Bayou going do like das.” 

“ He ’s fine chap,” M. Santerre as- 
sented with quick pride in his friend’s 
big boy. “ Fine chap, sho. Mais, I 
don’t believe he is so fine like our boy 
Bat is.” 

“ Non,” Madame made answer, as she 
always did to this proposition. “ Non, 
dere ain’t boy on Bayou so fine like Bat 
is.” But her heart was not with her 
boy now, and M. Santerre found witness 
of that fact in her tone. He looked up 
anxiously : 

“ Bat, he ain’t been doing not’ing, 
no?” 


[ 118 ] 


The Tough Lot 


“ Oh, mais non! ” Madame answered. 

The scholar was not satisfied with her 
absent rejoinder. He urged uneasily: 

“ ’T is only last week Bat was tell me 
how he ’s been wanting to get stove for 
you. Say he most have it and voila, coal 
go down. But I tell him, me, how ’tis 
you have little pan — ” 

“ Mot’er of God,” Madame broke out 
passionately, “ I wish I ain’t never had 
pan — never had pan ’t all.” 

The scholar got up, dropping the towel 
into the tub, and took the big, bony 
woman into his arms as tenderly as he 
had done it in their early days. 

“ Cherie,” he soothed, “ it ain’t your 
fault. Moise will know it ain’t your 
fault. Dere ain’t woman in world can 
say what girl is for boy. ’T is for God 
to say das. Dere ain’t woman in world 
can keep boy from love girl if das is 
girl for him to love. Voila, cherie! You 
t’ink dere is any woman in world — or 

[m] 


Maeie of Arcady; 


any man eit’er, could keep me from love 
you? Mais non! If dey chop off head 
and bury me in grave, I would go on 
love you in de ground same like I love 
you on top de ground. Certainly, cer- 
tainly, sho.’" 

All things considered, this stanch tes- 
timony to the hopelessness of combating 
Aluin’s love for the wrong girl ought 
not to have been very comforting, yet 
Madame Sam was comforted. Her 
black head nestled into the hollow under 
the scholar’s gaunt, stooped shoulders, 
his gray head bent to hers, and his toil- 
twisted hand stroked her cheek with the 
touch of a lover. The firelight flickered 
up and fell over them in a gleam; but 
in the eyes and the hearts of this life- 
worn man and woman was another gleam 
— a gleam as of God’s own glory. 

In the shed-room, with the handful of 
hard silver in her pillow and her eyes 
wide open upon the darkness, Marie 
[ 120 ] 


The Tough Lot 


Micou lay like one listening. And, in- 
deed, she was listening, — listening to a 
voice that deeply, boyishly, kept saying 
over and over all the words that Aluin 
had said. But it was not Aluin’s face 
she was seeing as she stared into the 
night. It was a girFs face, sweetly 
gentle. The face that had bent down 
to her when she had cowered in the 
schoolroom, so scared and alone; a face 
lighted with the glad brown eyes of 
laughter. But the eyes were not laugh- 
ing as Marie looked into them now. 
They had not been laughing when her 
friend bent down to her last Friday, say- 
ing so softly: 

“ Do not cry, Marie. Do not cry, 
m’ amie.” 

And Aluin, standing there with his 
arms folded — wanting to fight for her. 
Ah, if Felicie had only cried instead 
of telling the newcomer not to do itl 
And Marie heard again the boyish voice 
[ 121 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


talking in the dark, and she thought of 
the stars that had looked down through 
the pine-trees. How far away and lone- 
some and sad they were! She had had 
to run home quick and get away from 
them. She could not bear it, to stay there 
with those stars looking at her just as 
Felicie’s eyes had looked. 

‘‘ I wish to know if he get mad, 
maybe? But, me, I don’t care if he get 
mad or not. I wish to be by myself — 
like stars in sky.” And then the voice 
came again and the face, and her 
thoughts went tracking round the circle 
once more, shadowed always by the dark 
knowledge that followed them as that 
squat, ugly cloud had followed the frail 
young moon. Ah, heaven! How lonely 
the stars had looked all by themselves in 
the sky! 

“ But me,” Marie resolved, “ I ’m 
going be like stars. I will look; ’t is all 
I will do. I will look.” 

[ 122 ] 


The Tough Lot 

And yet when the Sunday morning 
broke so sweet and clear with the cool 
dew over everything and the fog steal- 
ing away from the Bayou, Marie was 
not ready to take up her role of star; 
not ready to become a mere looker-on. 
She was young, and her heart would 
beat and drive the blood to her cheek, 
and the bright light to her eyes. Her 
lips might lie, but if her cheek and eyes 
were going to tell the truth like that — 
If just thinking about seeing him made 
her face shine like that — 

Marie turned away from the little 
looking-glass, before which she had been 
brushing her hair, and went into the 
kitchen, where Madame Sam was get- 
ting some flour for the girls to powder 
their faces. It was the fourth Sunday 
in the month, the only Sunday when 
services were held at the Bayou church. 
Everybody was getting ready to go to 
mass. Madame Sam had already put 
[ 123 ] 


Marie op Aecady 


on her shoes and her best dress and 
was scooping up the flour carefully lest 
she spill the dust of it on her black 
skirt. 

‘‘ Ah, Marie,” she said turning, ‘‘ ain’t 
you most ready, no?” 

“ Non, Madame. I don’t wish to go 
to mass.” 

Madame put the flour on the table 
and drew back from it. 

“ You don’t wish to go to mass! ” she 
repeated. 

“ Non, Madame.” 

“ Marie,” Madame Sam said sternly. 

‘‘Yes, Madame,” said Marie. She 
stood with down-dropped lashes and her 
eyes upon the clean hands clasped before 
her. 

“ Marie, you mean it? You don’t 
wish to go to mass? ” 

“ Yes, Madame.” 

Madame looked at her almost stupe- 
fied with amazement for a moment. 

[ 124 ] 


The Tough Lot 


Then an idea flashed into her active 
mind. A terrible idea. 

‘‘ Marie,” she asked in horror, “ ain’t 
you Catholic?” 

“ Oh, mais oui, Madame. ’T is free 
year I make my first communion.” 

“ And you don’t wish to go to mass, 
ma fiUe? ” 

Marie had to modify her statement. 
Her manner grew more meek, her lashes 
more down dropped, and she said: 

“ ’T is only to-day I do not wish to 
go, Madame. Next mass we have I will 
go.” 

Madame’s mind presented another 
idea, one not at all terrible, save in its 
pitifulness. 

“ She ’s shamed because she ain’t got 
nice clothes,” Madame reflected. Aloud 
she said very kindly: 

“ Eh bien, ma fille. ’T is for you to 
say if you wish to go or not. ’T will 
be only free hours we be gone. You 
[ 125 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

won’t be scared to stay in house by. 
yourself? ” 

“Oh, mais non, Madame!” 

So Marie stayed at home and thriftily 
worked on a handkerchief, while the 
church-goers went forth to attend the 
solemn service of their creed, to be 
steadied and comforted by the serene 
counsel of their priest, to be heartened 
by the handclasps of their neighbors, 
and, eh bien, to be brightened by a bit 
of gossip. 

Everybody was at church that day. 
Such a beautiful Sunday! And then, 
too, it was expected that the man who 
had bought the American’s place, the 
man whom all the men had pronounced 
a “ tough lot,” but whom few of the 
women had had a chance to see, — voila, 
it was expected that this man would be 
at church also. 

The worshipers came in, group by 
group, and sedately took places in the 
[ 126 ] 


The Tough Lot 


customary pews. Sometimes a Madame 
leaned back to whisper; 

“ I wish to know, me, what is his 
name, maybe?” 

Or, another Madame leaned forward 
to answer: 

“ I hear, me, ’t is Clausel Camusette. 
Mais, I don't know!” 

The man who was such a “ tough lot ” 
did not come early. M. Moise and Ma- 
dame came, and the priest with them. 
M. Aluin also came, smiling to himself 
with satisfaction when he missed one 
face from the Santerre group. Even 
when M. Dupre, who always came late, 
had arrived with his poor, half-witted 
son, the “ tough lot ” had not come. But 
a silence had fallen upon the waiting 
groups ; a little bell giving forth now and 
then its silver tinkle; a man’s voice rev- 
erently intoning the Latin chants; re- 
sponses murmured, many-toned, solemn; 
the stir of a crowd that knelt as one, 
[ 127 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


or, as one, rose from its kneeling; the 
words of the priest, full- voiced, earnest, 
sympathetic, as of a father speaking to 
children he loved; a blessing besought; 
a benediction given — one of these 
sounds had covered the sound of a step 
that softly entered the church. Which 
sound had covered it no member of the 
congregation knew. But when the 
church-goers turned to leave the church, 
there, grim and watchful, just inside 
the door, stood Clausel Camusette. His 
small, unwinking eyes peered into every 
face that passed him, as though he had 
come to church, not so much for the 
purpose of hearing mass, as for the 
sake of seeing what his neighbors looked 
like. 

“Ma foi,” Madame Moise whispered 
to her big Monsieur, “ I wish to know, 
me, if he ’s ’fraid he ain’t never going 
have chance to see some people ’gain, 
maybe? ” 


[ 128 ] 


The Tough Lot 


If M. Camusette passed the congre- 
gation in review as it left the church, 
the congregation had its chance when 
M. Camusette left the churchyard. It 
paused as by common consent, and 
watched him intently until he was out 
of ear-shot. Then everybody began to 
talk, and Madame Moise caught Ma- 
dame Sam by the arm with a laugh: 

“Voila! My old man say de don’t 
know if das man is all tough lot or not. 
What you t’ink, ha?” 

Madame Sam was listening to Felicie, 
laughing as she talked to Aluin. 

“ Me,” she reflected, painstricken, “ I 
ain’t never fought I would be sorry to 
hear Felicie laugh.” 

You fink he ’s tough lot? ” Madame 
Moise insisted, all eagerness. 

Madame Sam’s voice blazed with the 
Are of wounded motherhood as she 
answered; 

“If he ain’t tough lot den ’tis his 

9 [ 129 ] 


Marie op Arcady 


face lie, and his eyes lie aussi. Dose 
eyes he got! Dey ’s little and dey ’s 
^ mean, yes. Man wit’ eyes like das is 
going be mean wit’ horse, mean wit’ 
steer. Ma foil I ’m sorry for anyt’ing 
das belong to him. When a man have 
mean eyes, he ’s mean, yes.” 

And even as they passed in review 
the empty road and deserted byways, 
the mean little eyes Madame Sam be- 
rated, that had kept such sharp vigi- 
lance over the crowd, were peering and 
watching as though searching for more 
than was to be seen. 


[ 130 ] 


CHAPTER EIGHT 

THE QUESTION 

Monday morning M. Moise, mindful of 
the promise he had made to Reneau, 
threw a leg over his solid sorrel and 
jogged away to interview the man of 
whose toughness he alone entertained any 
doubt. The Bayou had given its opin- 
ion on Sunday evening, Madame Sam 
having voiced the sentiment of the major- 
ity when she said in substance to Madame 
Moise that the meanness of a man was 
measured by the meanness of his eyes. 
In Bienvieu a mean man is counted a 
“ tough lot.” — A man not to be bowed 
by mesdames; to be talked to by little 
children. 

“ But, me,” M. Moise said with a side- 
ways shake of the head, “ me, I don’t 
know if he is all tough lot, — or not.” 

[ 131 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Down the Bayou for a mile or more, 
over the bridge, then up the Bayou for 
another mile or more went the heavy sor- 
rel, M. Moise musing as he rode. Once 
he said aloud deliberately: -* 

‘‘ I don’t know, me, if he will wish to 
make lane, or not.” 

Once he repeated the doubt with which 
he had set forth: - 

“ I don’t know if he is all like dey say 
or not.” When he came to the shack the 
newcomer had built on the site of the 
American’s house — long since rotted 
down — M. Moise tied his horse in the 
shade of a sapling and hailed Camusette 
with a genial “ Bon jour.” 

Camusette did not say bon jour, 
neither did he get up from the log in 
front of his shack. Grimly, ungra- 
ciously, out of eyes little and round like 
a hog’s, he eyed M. Moise in silence. 

The big Monsieur came forward, sat 
down on the log beside his ungracious 
[ 132 ] 


The Question 


host, pushed his hat back from his fore- 
head and said politely: 

“ ’T is nice place you going have here. 
Nice place, sho. Dis land, it has been 
rest so long, ’twill make good crop. 
Good ’tater on slope and good rice aussi 
in bottom.” 

Camusette said nothing, and M. Moise 
sat looking away toward the thicket of 
pines that had sprung up, and grown tall 
and round in what had once been the 
American’s chosen field. 

When he had finished his thinking, the 
big Monsieur turned to Camusette with 
a lift of his finely arched brows : — 

“You know how ’tis your land run? 
From Bayou on nort’ to branch on sout’. 
Right straight line it is. You’ east line 
run right by M. Reneau’s field fence, and 
your west line, it follow das pasture 
fence; right straight across point it fol- 
low das pasture fence.” 

Camusette did not seem to be interested 
[ 133 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

in this information. He sat on, grim 
and ungracious still, not even bending a 
glance on the man at his side. M. Moise 
repeated thoughtfully: ^ 

“ Right by das pasture fence, sho.” 
He looked at Camusette with an ex- 
plaining spread of his brows: 

“ You know how ’t is. You don’t have 
to leave lane t’rough your land if you 
don’t wish. Das is law. But I reckon, 
me, you better leave lane. De sheep dey 
have been trav’ t’rough here, ’t is twenty 
years, maybe. I reckon you better leave 
lane. Better leave lane, sho.” 

Camusette said briefly: *->« 

“ If I don’t wish to leave lane, I don’t 
leave lane, no.” 

“No, sir; das is law. If you don’t 
wish to leave lane, you don’t leave lane. 
No, sir. Mais, I reckon, maybe, you 
better leave lane. De sheep, dey have 
been trav’ t’rough here twenty years. 
If dey don’t trav’ t’rough here, den day 
[ 134 ] 


The Question 


must trav’ t’rough branch. And das 
branch, it is bad branch for sheep. Bad 
branch, sho ” — he turned with another 
explaining spread of brows and added, 
“ in de winter.” 

“ ’T is not my sheep das trav’,” Camu- 
sette told him. 

“No, sir”; M. Moise agreed courte- 
ously, “ ’t is not your sheep.” And then 
he began to consider the matter, and con- 
sidered so long, that at last Camusette 
himself broke silence with a harsh: 

“ But ’t is your sheep das trav’, ha? ” 

M. Moise turned, his eyebrows pro- 
testing gently: « 

“ No, sir; ’t is not my sheep das trav’ 
t’rough here. Me, I live on ot’er side of 
Bayou.” 

“Ha?” Camusette uttered suspi- 
ciously. 

“ Yes, sir; ’t is on ot’er side of Bayou 
I live, down by church. I reckon you 
pass my place yesterday. On top of hill 
[ 135 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


wit’ orange trees by front gate? Next 
time you pass my place, I wish you to 
come in and have some coffee. I have 
some hog dere I would like you to see. 
Fine hog, sho. Dey ain’t white, no. 
Not all white. Dey have white tail — 
half dere tail is white. ‘ Poland China,’ 
’t is das how dey call dem. And dey do 
right well on Bayou. Right well, sho. 
Now white hog, dey don’t do right well. 
Dey scald,” he lifted explaining brows 
again and added — “ in de summer.” 

Camusette did not seem to be any more 
interested in hogs than he had seemed 
to be in lines. 

M. Moise got up and settled his 
hat: 

“ I reckon,” he summed up thought- 
fully, ‘‘ dose men das run sheep t’rough 
here should split you rail for make fence. 
Das is right. If you leave lane for dere 
sheep to trav’ den dey should make fence 
for lane. Dey can all split some rails — 
[ 136 ] 


The Question 

and me aussi, I will split some rails. Den 
we come all hands and put up fence. 
’T will be quick job. Quick job, sho. 
Well, I better be going. When you 
come cross Bayou, you stop at my house. 
I will be proud, proud sho.” M. Moise 
held out his very large hand, but Camu- 
sette stared past, refusing to see it. 

“ I wish to shake hands wit’ you,” M. 
Moise reminded gently. “ Whenever 
man come to live on Bayou, me, I wish 
to shake hands wit’ him.” 

Camusette got up from the log and 
slowly delivered his hand into the big 
Monsieur’s hearty grasp. 

“ C’est bien, M. Camusette,” M. Moise 
said heartily, “ I ’m glad to meet you. 
Glad, sho! And Reneau, he will be 
proud to know you going leave lane. 
Proud, sho! ” 

Clausel Camusette withdrew his eyes 
from staring, and gave M. Moise such a 
glance as is given by a surly dog that 
[ 137 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

suffers hunger. “Reneau! You ain’t 
hear of somebody on Bayou das come 
run to his house, ha? ” he demanded. 

“ Somebody das come run to Reneau’s 
house?” M. Moise repeated slowly. 
“ No, sir. I ain’t ever hear of anybody 
on Bayou das come run to his house.” 
He met the baflBed look in the little eyes 
and added kindly, “ But if ever I hear 
of sombody on Bayou das come run to 
his house, I will send you word. Yes, 
sir, I will send you word, sho.” 

Camusette said nothing more and M. 
Moise tightened his cinch and untied his 
horse, turned, and said: 

“Well, bon jour, M. Camusette! I 
will tell dose men how ’t is and das dey 
must split some rails for das lane. Bon 
jour! ” 

Madame Moise was busy cooking 
dinner but as soon as she heard M. Moise 
throw his saddle on the end of the front 
gallery she came out at a run. 

[ 138 ] 


The Question 


“ Bien, cher/’ she greeted. “ And you 
find das man at his house? ” 

Yes/’ Monsieur told her, “ I find 
him at his house, sho.” Then he sat down 
and looked away peacefully to where a 
buzzard was circling through the blue. 

“ And me, I wish to know if he ’s going 
leave das lane or not,” Madame observed 
pointedly. 

Monsieur swung his eye from the buz- 
zard and gave her a droll side glance by 
way of rejoinder. 

Madame rushed into merry laughter. 

“ But I wish to know,” she insisted. 

‘‘ And me aussi,” observed Monsieur. 
‘‘ He did n’t tell me no he won’t leave 
lane, mais — ” 

“ He did n’t tell you no? C’est bien! 
If he ain’t say no I reckon, me, he will 
leave lane. I reckon, me, maybe das 
Victor Reneau will stop swear so much. 
Oh, Amelia say he was worry! ” 

“Sho, sho!” said Monsieur, then he 
[ 139 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


added thoughtfully. “ Seem like das 
man is queer chap, queer chap, sho. 
You know what ’t is he ask me as I was 
go’?" 

‘‘Quoi?’’ demanded Madame, all 
interest. 

“ He ask me if anybody on Bayou 
come run to Reneau’s house. Mon Dieu, 
I don’t know for why should he ask me 
t’ing like das.” 

“ He ’s crazy, maybe,” Madame sug- 
gested. “ Or, maybe, ’t is he was drunk.” 

“ No,” Monsieur said slowly, ‘‘ I don’t 
believe, me, he is crazy. And he don’t 
look like he ever got drunk. Mais — ” 

But Madame wished to know more of 
the stranger’s status. 

And what he have yonder, cher? 
Some sheep? Some cow? Some horse, 
maybe? ” 

Monsieur shook his head. 

“ He ain’t got not’ing, Bebe! I don’t 
believe, me, he ’s even got dog.” 

[ 140 ] 


The Question 

“ Pauvre diable! ” Madame cried, and 
her tone softened. “ I don’t reckon he ’s 
happy, cher.” 

M. Moise shook his head again as the 
dago’s sour visage rose in his memory. 

“ Non,” he said, “ I don’t reckon he ’s 
happy. Mais — ” his eyes went back, 
bothered, to the buzzard in the blue. 
Why should Camusette have asked him 
that seemingly senseless question. Why, 
why? Slowly, thoughtfully. Monsieur’s 
eyes followed the buzzard as it circled and 
hung and circled again. Madame had 
long ago gone back to her kitchen, the 
gumbo was almost done; the bird was 
sinking to rest awhile, when Monsieur 
brought his chair down on all fours with 
a sharply uttered: 

“Mon Dieu!” His big, hairy hand 
clinched on his knee and M. Moise stared 
at it. His thought took shape slowly. 

“And he t’ink he can come sneak on 
das little girl’s track like dog? He t’ink 
[ 141 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

he can do like das on Bayou? But, me, 
I don’t know if he can do like das.” Star- 
ing hard at his hand, M. Moise could yet 
see no reason why the dago should have 
expected Marie Micou to run to Reneau’s 
house, but he saw very clearly why the 
dago had come to the Bayou — an evil 
mission. Monsieur’s jaws gripped as he 
thought of it. “Mais,” he said grimly, 
‘‘ I don’t know if he can do like das. Not 
if I live, he can’t,” Monsieur concluded. 
Then he tipped his chair back to ponder 
yet another thing: 

Should he tell Bebe? 

M. Moise was not a man who told 
things unless they had to be told. Should 
he tell Bebe? 

Madame had been having a caller in 
the kitchen and hearing news. She came 
to the door and broke upon Monsieur’s 
pondering with a merry laugh. 

“Voila, cher! You ain’t hear what 
’t is happen at school — last Friday? ” 
[ 142 ] 


The Question 


Monsieur smiled at the laughter, and 
shook his head. 

“ Ma foi. But das Aluin we got play 
big man, yes. He was wish to have fight 
wit’ Herbert Paul. Aluin don’t tell me 
not’ing, no! and our little girls, dey 
don’t say not’ing. But Camille just 
now send her little Esperance to borrow 
some sugar and she tell. She ’s sharp, 
das Esperance. And she laugh ! Say her 
Uncle Aluin was ready for lick Herbert 
when L’Autre get scare and tell. ’T was 
like dis,” and Madame got both hands 
ready and began to tell it busily. “ You 
know das rule teacher make — about 
drop book on floor? Bien! Herbert’s 
book fall on floor. He don’t see it, no. 
Not Herbert. But das little L’Un, he 
see, and he say quick, ‘ Marie Micou 
drop book on floor.’ Voila! Aluin 
jump up, ‘ ’T is not Marie Micou drop 
book. L’Un tells lie.’ Herbert jump 
up : — ‘ L’Un don’t tell lie, no ! ’ Den 
[ 143 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Aluin say, mighty big, ' If any man 
wants fight he can come to me and get 
all he wants.’ And he take step to Her- 
bert but little L’Autre gets scared and 
holler, ‘ Gar, Herbert’s book on floor. 
Gar! ’ Oh, she say L’Un was mad wit’ 
L’Autre for tell. And Herbert was mad 
wit’ L’Un for lie. But she say de only 
one das cry was Marie Micou! And, 
cher, das Esperance! She say she don’t 
know for why Marie wish to cry. Say 
if ever boy wish to fight for her, she 
ain’t going wish to cry. Say das make 
her proud, yes. Ma foi, das Esperance ! ” 

M. Moise smiled again in sympathy, 
and then said slowly: 

‘‘ And Aluin, he take up for Marie 
Micou.” 

“Yes! Oh, Esperance say he look 
proud. Say he set his arm — conime-9a ; 
and t’row up his head — ‘ If L’Un 
say ’tis Marie drop book on floor, he 
lie.’ ” 


[ 144 ] 


The Question 

“And L’Un,” Monsieur commented 
gravely, “ he lie. I ’m sorry for das. 
Sorry, sho! ” 

“ And me aussi. I ’m sorry for Her- 
bert. Oh, Esperance say he was un- 
happy. Say he was shame. She say 
Josephine ask teacher if she could 
speak, and went on boy’s side and 
talked wit’ Herbert. Says seem like 
Josephine was beg Herbert not to lick 
L’Un because ’twas for him das L’Un 
tell lie. But she say Herbert lick L’Un 
soon as school was out. Ma foi! Das 
little chap he ’s so bad ! He should have 
had licking long time ago.” 

“ Sho, sho,” said Monsieur, and con- 
sidered it. 

“ If he tell lie, Bebe, he ought to have 
licking. But, me, I ain’t ever hear das 
he tell lie before.” 

“No,” Madame admitted busily, “he 
ain’t ever tell lie before. But look what 
he do! Das time he send das poor Va- 
10 [ 145 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


lere Dupre to ask Felicie to marry wit’ 
him. Oh, cher! das little chap should 
have had licking for das!” 

“ Mais,” Monsieur objected gently, 
“ I don’t know if it was him das send 
Valere or not. Valere tell me he go 
tell Felicie, he wish to pet hair on her 
head and das she cry and say she was 
sorry. He say he tell her den he won’t 
pet hair if it make her sorry, and he 
say she cry some more, and say she was 
sorry some more. Valere tell me he 
don’t know what to do den, so he say, 
‘ Doggone, you do just like one fool.’ ” 

Madame caught a breath of quick 
compassion : 

“Poor Valere, ’tis what he say all 
time when he don’t know what to say.” 
And then she broke into laughter. 

“ Mais, cher, why you ain’t never tell 
me das!” 

“ ’T is not right to laugh at him, 
Bebe,” Monsieur reminded gently. 

[ 146 ] 


The Question 

“ No, I know, me, ’t is not right. 
Pauvre gar9on. I wish to know, me, 
what ’t is he ’s going do.” 

M. Moise answered deliberately: 

“ He say he ain’t never going to ask 
Felicie to let him pet hair wit’ her 
again. Say he was scared when she 
cried. But, Beb^ I don’t know if it 
was L’Un das send him to do like das. 
Valere don’t tell me L’Un send him.” 

“ ’T was L’Un das tell Josephine das 
Valere was going to make marry wit’ 
Felicie, and das she was going have 
man das have no head for frere. Jo- 
sephine tell me she believe ’twas L’Un 
make Valere t’ink about das. She tell 
me he just laid down on ground and 
laugh when he was telling her.” And 
Madame’s merriment bubbled over 
again. 

“ Oh, cher, Josephine ain’t never going 
forget das time L’Un make her go dive 
in Bayou.” 


[ 147 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Monsieur forgot his gravity and let 
slip a chuckle: 

“Das L’Un, he’s live chap. Live 
chap, sho.” 

Madame laughed also with relish. 
Josephine Santerre was the most serene 
^irl on the Bayou, and when L’Un had 
put a plank, slick with slime, under the 
water where Josephine went to get her 
scrubbing sand, all Bienvieu had held 
the side even while it shook the head. — 
Josephine had stepped on the slick plank 
and shot off into mid-stream, and her 
_:anner of doing it had not been at all 
serene. 

Madame Moise had cherished but one 
regret concerning the episode, and she 
voiced it now for the hundredth time, 
saying : 

“I wish, me, I had seen Josephine 
when she go dive in!” 

Monsieur had, however, gone back to 
the considering of Valere. 

[ 148 ] 


The Question 

“ I reckon, me, he ain’t never going to 
have head — das Valere,” he summed 
up slowly. 

“Oh, mais non!” Madame assured 
him. “ His papa tell me ’t is because he 
have so much troub’ wit’ his legs das 
he can’t do not’ing. But me, I t’ink 
’tis not just his leg das he have troub’ 
wit’ so much.” 

“ Maybe if he ain’t never had dose 
rickets — ” M. Moise began, but Ma- 
dame interrupted with a sorrowful 
appeal: 

“ Oh, cher! Ain’t his mamma and his 
papa cousin? Ain’t dere mamma and 
dere papa cousin? Ain’t dere mamma 
and dere papa cousin? Ma foil I wish 
to know, me, how boy can have head 
when he is so much cousin wit’ his own 
papa! ” 

“ Sho, sho ! ” Monsieur said. “ Mais, I 
reckon, me, if he ain’t had dose rickets 
he could walk better dan he do, maybe.” 

[ 149 ] 


Maeie of Arcady 


“ Pauvre gar9on. He could n’t walk 
any worse dan he do,” Madame agreed. 
“ Not if he going walk ’t all, he 
can’t,” she added softly. The little 
Madame had a very tender heart for 
August Dupre’s motherless, half-witted 
son. 

And there came then to Monsieur and 
Madame Moise the silence that always 
came when they had spoken of Valere 
Dupre. Poor fellow! it was not his 
fault that he was a fool, and Monsieur 
and Madame knew it well. There was 
something appealingly pathetic in his 
uncomplaining, unconscious paying of 
that penalty of his forefathers’ folly. 

Madame Moise sighed. 

“ Maybe if his mother ain’t die when 
he was baby he ain’t been sick so much. 
But I don’t believe, me, he ever could 
have head.” 

“ Sho, sho! ” said Monsieur, and then 
he added as earnestly and as sincerely 
[ 150 ] 


The Question 

as though he had not already said it 
dozens of times: 

“ I reckon, me, dere was too much 
cousin. Too much cousin, sho.” 

‘‘ Cher,” Madame told him, turning 
with the sudden recollection, “ dey say 
das Marie Micou, she is good to Valere. 
But, yes! Dey say she is kind to him.” 

“Mais oui?” Monsieur said, pleased. 
“ I reckon, me, das Marie have kind 
heart, maybe.” 

“ Mais oui, she have kind heart. All 
time look like she wish to do somefm^ 
for somebody. Mais, oher, ’tis funny 
how she come! Teacher say she t’ink 
maybe Marie come from New Orleans. 
Say she read in paper how dey have 
yellow fever in New Orleans. And she 
say de people was run here, run dere. 
And M. Santerre, he say he read das 
in paper aussi. What you t’ink, cher? ” 

M. Moise considered it. 

“ I hear dey have fever in New Orleans 
[ 151 ] 


Marie oe Arcady 


— good while ago, I hear das. But I 
don’t know if ’tis so or not. Dose 
papers, dey lie heap, yes! ” 

“ Oh, mais oui, dey lie heap,” Ma- 
dame admitted without hesitancy. “ But 
maybe ’t is dey don’t lie dis time. 
Maybe ’t is dere Marie was raised. 
Wherever ’t is she was raised, ’t is where 
dey talk de French.” 

Monsieur thought of the dago — of his 
queer question and the perplexity: Why 
to Reneau’s house? but he only shook 
his head and set up the ends of his 
mustache in doubt. 

“ Mais, Bebe, in das New Orleans, dey 
don’t talk de French like we talk — ” 
Madame broke in eagerly: 

“Mais oui! And das Marie, she 
don’t talk de French like we talk. Not 
all time, she don’t. Sara tell me some- 
time she say de word and dey don’t know 
what ’t is she say. I reckon, maybe, ’t is 
from New Orleans she come.” 

[ 152 ] 


The Question 

Monsieur nodded slowly. His live 
little Madame had been over this ques- 
tion a good many times without seeming 
to make any more of it by persistent 
hammering. But farther possibihty now 
presented itself to her and she said with 
alarm : 

‘‘ Maybe ’t is back to New Orleans she 
will go in de winter. Oh, I pray God, 
me, she don’t go till she have bought 
stove for Sara!” 


[ 158 ] 


CHAPTER NINE 

THE SHADOW ON THE BAYOU 

Because of the eagerness with which 
Bayou Bienvieu had seized upon the vital 
question, whether Clausel Camusette 
was all tough or not, Marie Micou had 
escaped criticism for failing to attend 
mass on the fourth Sunday. A few mes- 
dames had mentioned the matter with 
raised brows to Madame Sam, but her 
explanation that it was a matter of dress 
had quickly silenced the voices and 
lowered the brows. Even M. Santerre 
had conceded it with a kind-hearted: 
“ Certainly, certainly, sho 1 ” 

When, however, Marie ventured upon 
a farther step in the path she had planned 
to walk alone, she met with opposition. 
It was on Monday morning, just after 
breakfast, that Marie with down-dropped 
[ 154 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

lashes, meekly announced that she was 
not going to school. The moment se- 
lected for the announcement proved un- 
fortunate, for the “ scholard ” had not 
left the kitchen. Unmindful of the 
waiting work, he sat down and called 
Marie gently to stand before him. His 
dark eyes were very grave. 

“ I wish to know why ’t is you don’t 
want to go to school, maybe. If ’t is das 
teacher ain’t been kind wit’ you? ” 

Marie could not truthfully say that the 
teacher had ever been anything but very 
kind to her, so she looked down at her 
hands and said nothing. 

“ If ’t is somebody been tease you, 
maybe? ” 

But, no! Tingling with the memory 
of the marked deference that had been 
shown her all Friday afternoon — after 
Aluin Moise had stood forth to defend 
her, Marie could not say that she feared 
the mocking of her mates. 

[ 155 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

The scholarly inquiry, gentle and per- 
sistent as dropping water, continued : 

“ Den why ’t is you wish to stay home, 
Marie? ’’ 

Marie lifted her head and lied gal- 
lantly. 

“ I wish to stay home for make mou- 
choir, me,” she said. 

At this the scholar’s dark eyes grew 
graver. 

“ Mais non! ” he said, shocked. “ To 
learn, ’t is better dan to make de money. 
All time, ’tis better. Voila, Marie. 
What a man have in his pocket, he can 
lose, maybe. But what he have in his 
head, he can’t lose. No! And what a 
man have in his pocket he spend and 
’t is gone. But what a man have In his 
head, de more he spend, de more he have. 
Dere ain’t any money in pocket, Marie, 
so fine like learning in head. Non! And 
dere ain’t any money in world can buy 
learning in head. If you make mouchoir, 
[ 156 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 


and make mouchoir, till you be rich like 
dose mesdames on Black Bayou, you 
can’t buy learning in head, no! ’Tis 
only in school das you can get learning 
in head. And so me, I wish das you go 
to school every day and learn like Jose- 
phine and Felicie learn. Learn to write 
nice and to know what ’tis you write. 
Some children go to school and learn to 
write nice but dey don’t know what ’t is 
dey write. No. Dey can write just like 
de copy, but dey don’t know what ’tis 
dey write. Now me, I don’t wish das 
you learn to write like das. If you don’t 
know what word is, ask teacher. Cer- 
tainly, certainly, sho! And ’tis same 
when you read. If you come to word 
in book and don’t know what das word 
mean, ask teacher. All time, ask teacher! 
Teacher will teU you, I know das, me, 
because when first she come I go to 
schoolhouse and I say to her: 

“ ‘ If you please. Miss May, you will 


Marie of Arcady 

tell my children what word mean if dey 
don’t know? ’ 

“ And she tell me mais oui, certainly, 
das make her proud. 

“And aussi, I wish, Marie, das you 
learn to calculate. I wish das you learn 
dose multeepleecation tables. I wish das 
you learn dem so fast das you can answer 
quick. Not just to say straight down 
line, but to skip here, skip dere. Voila, 
my boy Bat! He learn like das when he 
go to school and now das he have store 
— mais oui, he have right nice little store 
down dere! — and when somebody come 
in store and ask him somet’ing, like, 
‘ How much ’t is for seven yards of clot’ 
at five cents de yard? ’ Bat don’t have 
to go get piece of paper and put down 
marks. No ! He tell dem quick, ‘ T’irty- 
five cents!’ Just like das! Mais oui, 
’t is one day last week I was in store and 
hear him do das. And why he can do 
like das? Voici, he know his multeeplee- 
[ 158 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

cation table. ’T is fine t’ing, das multee- 
pleecation table. Fine t’ing, sho. Me, 
I would rat’er my children know das 
multeepleecation table dan have all money 
dere is in world. Certainly, certainly, 
sho! You see how ’tis, Marie. Man 
can lose money, lose all he ’s got, and 
be poor as when he was born; but if 
he learn das multeepleecation table right 
he can’t lose it, no! Not until he lose 
his head.” 

Eh bien, Marie Micou went to school 
to learn to read what she wrote, to un- 
derstand what she read, to commit the 
multiplication tables, and in her loneli- 
ness, in the shadow of that following 
fear, to resist as best she could the woo- 
ing of Aluin Moise. The last was not 
easy to do, for the more she avoided the 
big fellow, the more he delighted to seek 
her, and the more determined became 
his attentions. The honest Aluin was 
as open and above board about it as 
[ 159 ] 


Marie of Aecady 


about everything else; a course which, 
coupled with the many and unmerciful 
snubbings he received, would have 
brought down upon him the merriment 
of the school, had not his easy temper 
and native courage been proof against 
chagrin, and refused admission of de- 
feat. As it was, the school looked on, 
eager-eyed, intensely interested. 

Coquetry was a pretty game not in- 
frequently played in the Bienvieu school, 
but it had never been played there so 
daringly before; and though all the girls 
envied Marie’s skill and dash, L’Un 
very nearly voiced the secret sentiment 
of the boys when he said to Herbert 
as he trudged manfully beside that 
big brother on the way home from 
school : 

“ I wish to know, me, why ’t is das 
Marie Micou don’t put rose in hair 
when Aluin give it her? Godamit, if 
I have girl and she don’t put rose in 
[ 160 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

hair when I give it her, me, I take das 
rose and t’row it in her face, yes!” 

Little L’Autre looked up, made brave 
by a brilliant thought. 

“ Maybe,” he began, and hesitated. 
He well knew that he was not nearly 
so well informed as L’Un touching the 
nature of love affairs, and his sense of 
ignorance oppressed him. “ Maybe ’t is 
Marie don’t wish to be girl wit’ Aluin.” 

“ Don’t wish,” L’Un shouted deri- 
sively, and even Herbert stopped in his 
stride to stare at the little chap. 

“ Who ’t is you reckon Marie wish to 
be girl wit’? ” he asked trying hard not 
to echo L’Un’s derision. 

L’ Autre took heart at the question: 

I t’ink, me, she wish to be girl wit’ 
Valere Dupre.” 

“Oh, Godamit!” L’Un shouted, and 
flung his books away that he might roll 
laughing in the grass. “ Girl wit’ Va- 
lere Dupre I Oh, Godamit 1 L’ Autre, tu 
11 [ 161 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


sot! You don’t know dere ain’t girl on 
Bayou would wish to be girl wit’ Va- 
lere Dupre? ” 

But little L’Autre, despite the tears 
of chagrin that he had to keep blinking 
back, had plucky stuff in him. In the 
face of even Herbert’s grin he backed 
up his statement: 

“Dere ain’t boy in school Marie is 
so kind wit’ like she is wit’ Valere. When 
Valere give her rose she put it in hair. 
Oui!” 

“Oui?” L’Un repeated and sat up, 
soberly, in the grass. “ Valere ain’t 
never give Marie rose,” he asserted, but 
doubtfully. 

“ Mais oui,” L’Autre declared stoutly. 
“ Marie was sew’ on gallery and Valere 
fetch rose, and t’row it on floor by her 
foot, and Marie pick up rose and put 
it in her hair. Mais oui. I see her do 
like das. Mamma have send me to take 
back egg she borrow,” and L’Autre 
[ 162 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

stuck out his chest with an air, for 
L’Un’s face plainly showed defeat. 

Herbert interposed a quick question: 

“ When das was, L’ Autre? Since last 
Friday, ha? ” 

L’ Autre answered proudly: 

“ Mais oui. ’T was yesterday I see 
das, me!” 

Herbert walked on thoughtfully for 
a while, then he spoke to the twins, ad- 
dressing them as one — as he usually 
did. 

“Don’t you say not’ing ’bout das to 
nobody,” he commanded. 

L’Un, alert again as a dog at a fair, 
gave manly assent, but L’ Autre hesi- 
tated. Finders should be keepers. 

“ Not mamma? ” he questioned wist- 
fully. “I can’t tell mamma?” 

Eh bien, it was Herbert’s turn to hesi- 
tate. Mamma was all right, — true and 
tried and sharp as a sharp ax. Also, 
she was a woman of good judgment. 

[ 163 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

She would never tell to a neighbor what 
ought not to be told. But in the 
strength of her many virtues mamma 
had a fatal weakness — in Herbert’s 
eyes. She believed that she should tell 
her husband all she knew. And if ever 
there was an unreliable Monsieur on 
Bienvieu it was M. Paul. Confide to 
him the simplest story and he would tell 
it to every man he met — tell it seven 
ways for Sunday, and never tell it 
straight. And Herbert knew it; knew 
that his father was a temperate, kind- 
hearted little man, and a liar. That as 
long as M. Paul could wag a tongue 
he would talk a stream of wild words, 
heedless alike of what he said, or to 
whom he said it. If L’Autre should tell 
mamma, mamma would tell papa, and 
papa, likely as not, would trot straight 
to M. Moise with a crazy account of 
Aluin’s attentions to Marie Micou, and 
of Marie’s favor, in preference, for Va- 
[ 164 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

lere, — a wild yarn that would hurt the 
big Monsieur and go all down the Bayou 
to Aluin’s most outrageous shame. It 
is bad enough for a boy to be cut out 
by a fair rival, but to be cut out by a 
boy that has no head! It was intoler- 
able, Herbert felt, that such a story 
should be started about his friend. And 
yet, to tell the little chaps to keep a 
secret from mamma — he could not do 
that. 

“ ’T is me will tell mamma. I will 
tell her das it is you see rose, and see 
Marie put it in hair. I will tell her 
’t is you, L’ Autre, but I don’t wish das 
you talk about Aluin and Marie Micou. 
I have been friends wit’ Aluin since he 
was baby, and,” Herbert added earn- 
estly, “ ’t will make me mad if you 
tell somet’ing on him. I would fight 
any man on Bayou das tell t’ing on 
him.” 

Under pressure of this warning the 
[ 165 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

little chaps swore their tongues to still- 
ness and Herbert went to keep his 
promise of telling mamma. 

Madame Paul, very thin and very 
busy, was in her garden hoeing beans, 
when her tall son stopped at her side 
and took the tool from her hands; 

“ Mamma, if I tell you somet’ing 
you won’t tell nobody, no?” 

‘‘ Mais non,” Madame Paul agreed 
readily, but it never for a moment oc- 
curred to her that Herbert included M. 
Paul in his category. In Madame Paul’s 
thinking Monsieur and Madame were 
one. 

“ You won’t tell nobody,” Herbert 
insisted. “ Nobody ’t all.” 

“Mais non. Je le jure! ’T is about 
Josephine? ” 

“No. She’s all right, Josephine is.” 
Herbert’s face softened as he spoke his 
girl’s name, but it grew stern again at 
once and he said; 

[ 166 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

“ You won’t tell nobody? ’T is about 
Aluin Moise and Marie Micou.” 

“Quoil” uttered Madame, looking 
keenly into her son’s eyes. “ ’T is das,” 
she said softly. “ Aluin is go wit’ her? ” 

Herbert nodded. To him the terrible 
part of the story was yet to be told, — 
that a fool was preferred before his 
friend. When Madame, horrified, re- 
peated her question with an incredulous : 

‘‘Das can’t be so!” 

Herbert replied almost impatiently: 

“Oh, mais oui, ’tis so! All time he 
bring her rose; he bring her pencil.” 

“And what Marie do?” Madame 
asked anxiously. 

“ Not’ing. She won’t wear rose in 
hair.” 

“Ha? And den he bring her some 
more rose, maybe. Oh, Mot’er in 
Heaven,” she burst out unhappily, “I 
don’t know for why Aluin wish to be 
fool like das!” 


[ 167 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ He ain’t fool,” Herbert defended 
promptly. ‘‘ Besides Josephine, I ain’t 
never see girl so pretty like das Marie.” 

‘‘Mais, Herbert,” Madame wailed to 
his stupidity. “ I don’t know, me, what 
’tis Madame Moise will do if das boy 
go make marry wit’ stranger. Even if 
’tis she is pretty and nice and so kind 
like she is. From where she come? 
For why she come? Nobody don’t 
knowl ” 

Herbert scraped the hoe thoughtfully 
through the loose dirt. This was a view 
of the case he had not taken. 

“ C’est vrai,” he admitted. “ She ain’t 
like ot’er girls is. She ain’t like Jo- 
sephine ’t all.” 

“ No,” his mother agreed softly. Then 
she smiled in tender teasing out of her 
trouble. “ Mais, mon fils, dere ain’t any 
girl so fine like Josephine is.” 

Herbert laughed boyishly and began 
to hoe the beans with strong, swift 
[ 168 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

strokes. His mother moved beside him 
down the row: 

“ Madame Moise fought ’t would be 
Felicie/' she said, returning sorrowfully 
to her friend’s cause for sorrow, “ and 
she was proud for Felicie. Proud, yes. 
Ah, Heaven! I am sorry for Madame 
Moise.” 

“ And me, I am sorry for Monsieur,” 
Herbert said soberly. He was begin- 
ning to see how it was. 

“ And me aussi,” his mother agreed. 

Oh, I am sorry for dem when dey 
hear.” 

This recalled Herbert to his uneasiness 
touching papa. He said earnestly: 

“ I reckon dey ain’t going hear ■— ” 

“Dey ain’t hear last Sunday,” his 
mother put in with conviction. “ Oh, 
Madame Moise was glad last Sunday. 
She was laugh. She was tell me what 
’tis Madame Sam say about das new 
man — das Camusette, like dey call him. 

[ 169 ] 


She tell me Madame Sam say she t’ink 
das man is mean because he have de 
little eye. And Madame Moise was 
laugh’. She say, ‘Voila! Sara t’ink 
every man in world should have de big 
eye because her old man have eyes like 
cups wit’out bottom.’ Oh, she was glad 
last Sunday!” 

Herbert stopped hoeing: 

“ You reckon Madame Sam know? ” 
he asked. 

But instead of answering him, Ma- 
dame Paul turned with a pleased: 

“Dere my old man is!” 

Herbert, his anxieties heavy upon him, 
turned also, with warning, but it was 
too late. Down the path, barefooted, 
with his hat very much on one side, 
came M. Paul stepping along toward 
them with high, stylish steps. One- 
lunged, lean, and a liar, there was yet 
no malice in M. Paul’s make up. Kind 
he was to all living things, and kind he 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

always wished to be. He beamed upon 
his boy now with overflowing approval, 
and cried to him before he reached 
him: 

“Ha, Herbert! And you are help- 
ing your mamma wit’ garden again? 
C’est bon. Dere ain’t boy on Bayou so 
quick to help his mamma like you is. 
’T is just now I was tell das to M. 
Moise. I say to him: ‘Voila! when 
some boy get ’gaged to make marry 
wit’ girl, seem like he forgets he ’s got 
mamma. But not my Herbert. No! 
More he gets ’gaged, more he help his 
mamma.’ I tell him, me, aussi, when 
boy begins to grow man seem like all he 
t’ink is to chop de log; to haul de log; 
to burn de coal ; to make de money. But 
not my Herbert, no! He ain’t never in 
so much hurry to make de money, das he 
can’t stop to hoe garden for his mamma, 
to cut de wood for his mamma, maybe.” 
M. Paul had reached them out of breath, 
[ 171 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


and Herbert with dropped head, hot and 
unhappy, was hoeing furiously. 

Madame Paul took up the pause: 

“ You been talk’ wit’ M. Moise, cher? ” 
she questioned. 

‘‘ Mais oui,” the small man said 
largely. “ I stopped for have little talk 
wit’ Moise.” M. Paul called every Mon- 
sieur on the Bayou familiarly by his 
name, and a doubt as to whether they 
liked it or not never occurred to him. 
M. Moise accepted the indignity with 
his good-natured chuckle, but Victor Re- 
neau, the sheep magnate, spirited and 
impatient, hotly resented it. Not that 
his resentment availed. Behind his back 
the magnate might call Paul a liar, and 
before his face snub him harshly, but all 
he could do would not prevent M. Paul 
from addressing him kindly as Victor, 
and alluding to him always as Reneau. 

Madame Paul accepted the statement 
as all right and asked anxiously: 

[ 172 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

“ And M. Moise, he seem like he was 
glad, maybe? ” 

“Ohl mais oui, he was glad, Moise 
was. He was smir. He tell me he hear 
his boy and my boy 'most have fight in 
school one day not long ago,” and M. 
Paul turned with pleased pride to his 
eldest born. 

“ Ha, Herbert! How das was? You 
t’ink you can lick big chap like Aluin? 
C’est bien! I don’t wish any boy of mine 
ever be ’fraid for fight. Me, I ain’t got 
much leg, and I ain’t got much arm 
neit’er. But if any man on Bayou want 
fight, I ’m glad to give him all I got.” 
Pie smiled complacently at this modest 
mention of his courage, and asked of 
Herbert : 

“ Mais I fought you and Aluin was 
such big friends. For what you wish to 
lick him, ha? ” 

Herbert tossed the question aside. 

“ ’T was not’ ing,” he said. 

[ 173 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Madame’s motherly pride flew to the 
front. 

“ Mais oui, ’t was somet’ing,” she cried, 
and in a glow told the story as she had 
heard it from Josephine Santerre. 

M, Paul heard her through, his feet 
fidgeting excitedly in the loose earth. 

“ And ’t was for das Marie Aluin 
wish to fight? ” he cried in grief. 
“ Mon Dieu, Moise ain’t hear das, I 
reckon. He would n’t be smil’ so much 
if he had hear das. I wish to know 
if he is just play, or if he is going 
choose — ” 

Madame broke in unhappily: 

“ Cher, he ’s done choose. All time he 
bring her rose for put in hair, and he 
bring her pencil. He bring her lead 
pencil, cher.” 

M. Paul saw the seriousness of that, 
and his face showed it. 

“ He bring her pencil,” he repeated 
slowly. “ Mon Dieu, he bring her pen- 
[ 174 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

cil, and she ’s — stranger. Me, I wish 
to know what Moise will do?” 

‘‘ And me,” Madame cried to him, “ I 
wish to know what Madame Moise will 
do. Ah, she was glad Sunday. She was 
laugh’!” 

Herbert seized upon his chance and 
said earnestly: 

‘‘ I reckon, me, better not say not’ing. 
Maybe ’t is Aluin is just play wit’ her.” 

“ If it was just rose he bring her,” 
Madame said and flung out her hands. 

M. Paul agreed to it, shaking his head 
sagely. 

‘‘No, sir; not if he give her pencil, 
he ain’t play.” 

H^'bert said, then, pointedly: 

“ I hope, me, dere ain’t any man on 
Bayou so mean as to talk wit’ M. Moise 
about das.” 

M. Paul shook his head sagely 
again : 

“ I don’t reckon dere ’s any man on 
[ 175 ] 


Mauie of Aecady 


Bayou so mean as want to hurt Moise. 
He ’s good man, Moise is. But he ’s 
going have to hear. ’T will be friend 
das tell him tout-de-suite — ” 

Herbert interrupted hastily: 

“ But it ain’t you das going tell him, 
ha, papa?” 

“ Me? ” repeated M. Paul. ‘‘ I ain’t 
only friend Moise have. Dere ’s Victor, 
dere ’s Sam, dere ’s Jean Champetre. 
Dey all have tongue in head. Mais 
moi, if I see friend have measles and he 
don’t know and start to go in rain, I 
don’t tell him : ‘ Go on ! Rain can’t hurt 
you! Dere ain’t man on Bayou so well 
like you.’ Mais non, I don’t tell him das. 
I say to him: ‘ Arretez! ’T is sick man 
you be. Va a le lit! ’ ” 

“Sot!” Herbert gnashed silently at 
his own blabbing. “ Why you don’t 
make hurry now and tell all about Va- 
lero aussi? ” 

Madame Paul was saying: 

[ 176 ] 


The Shadow on the Bayou 

“ ’T is Aluin himself should tell his 
papa, and I reckon, me, he will tell him 
and his mamma aussi. Oh, I am sorry 
for dem.” 

“ Et moi,” M. Paul said sincerely. 

H&bert sighed unhappily. 

The meager Monsieur, the overworked 
Madame, the troubled boy, were one and 
all of them sorry to the soul for the big 
Monsieur and his little Madame. They 
stood together in the falling light. The 
garden lay about them in its tidy rows; 
the yellow glow shone over; the night- 
hawk called. 


12 


[ 177 ] 


CHAPTER TEN 

THE MAN AVHO HAD NO HEAD 

When Valere Dupre went to school, his 
father had explained to the teacher how 
it was: 

“You see, Miss May, my boy’s legs, 
dey ’s always been bad. Bad, sho! His 
mot’er die when he was baby, and seem 
like he ain’t never been right hearty. His 
legs keep give out. And I know, me, 
he can’t learn much wit’ legs like das — 
can’t learn much in book, no. He is 
smart in house, smart, sho! Dere ain’t 
not’ing he can’t do. Oh, he is smart in 
house, das Valere. And in garden aussi. 
He dig, he chop — He ’s smart chap, 
sho! ” 

The teacher said : “ He has very bright 
eyes.” 


[ 178 ] 


The Man Who had no Head 

“ Bright eyes, sho,’’ Dupre agreed 
eagerly. “Bright eyes, yes ma’am! 
Me, I ain’t never see boy have eyes so 
bright like Valere have.” 

“ Nor I,” said the teacher. She had 
seen many monkeys with eyes bright like 
Valere’s but she did not say so to M. 
Dupre. 

“ Bright eyes,” repeated the father, 
pleased and proud. “ Me, I ain’t fought 
you would see das so quick. And so you 
will un’stand. Miss May? If he don’t 
learn much you will be easy on him, if 
you please? You will know how ’t is — 
wif his legs?” 

“ Certainly,” said the teacher. “ I will 
remember. It is too bad he should have 
that trouble with his legs, isn’t it?” 

“It is, yes, m’am. It is, sho! Mais, 
man can’t have everyfing'' 

“ That is true,” Miss May assented, 
and returning M. Dupre’s parting bow, 
her glance went over pitifully to Valere, 
[ 179 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


who had so little, — so little in the way 
of brow or upper lip ; so little, poor fel- 
low, of human intelligence in his face. 

But Valere did not know. Proud and 
happy with his primer he came to school 
every day, and said his abc’s over and 
over, and never learned them, nor ever 
felt the bitterness nor the folly of his 
failure. When the teacher called his 
name, Valere would arise proudly and 
come grotesquely wobbling and lurch- 
ing on his rickets-twisted legs, to her 
table. At other times he sat in his seat, 
a model of quietude, making marks on 
his slate like those teacher had made 
there, watching the goats through a 
knot hole in the wall opposite, or softly 
cracking his knuckles under the desk. 
And never a boy in school so pleased 
and happy as Valere! Whenever an- 
other boy made a bad break or fell from 
grace, Valere was always ready for him 
at recess with a mild reproof, saying: 

[ 180 ] 


The Man Who had no Head 

“Doggone! You do just like one 
fool.” 

His stock remark had served him 
many a faithful turn. 

Valere had this also to his credit. 
Teacher never had to tell him to face 
his desk. He never twisted his head 
round to look over to the girls’ side as 
the other boys did. No! Valere did not 
look at the girls. It is true that a year 
or so ago, his eyes had been dazzled by 
the sunbright glory of Felicie’s hair, and 
that, advised by L’Un, he had fared to 
her wash-bench one blue Monday, and 
begged permission to pet that glad- 
colored hair. Felicie had cried and said 
she was sorry, and Valere, scared and 
puzzled, had done what all men on the 
Bayou, wise or foolish, did in time of 
trouble, — gone to M. Moise. 

The big Monsieur had explained 
gently that a girl could not let two boys 
pet her hair, and Valere had laid this 
[ 181 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


decision before L’Un, when the little imp 
began to question him concerning the 
success of his venture. 

L’Un lifted his thin shoulders in a 
shrug of derision: 

“ Ha, I reckon M. Moise t’ink Felicie 
is for Aluin, but, me, I know who 
Felicie Santerre is for.” 

This subtle insinuation of the eight- 
year-old’s own intentions was lost upon 
Valere, but he got the notion that Fe- 
licie was for Aluin, and so he never 
looked across to the girls’ side of the 
schoolroom again. If Felicie was for 
Aluin, she was not for him. Even 
though Valere had no head, he could 
understand that. 

And so, freed from temptation, pleased 
and happy, Valere’s school days had 
passed peacefully until there came that 
hot August day when the teacher had 
brought the little stranger girl into the 
school, and the little girl had begun to 
[ 182 ] 


The Man Who had no Head 

cry, and gone on crying. The sound 
of the sobbing had filled Valere with 
trepidation. Badly frightened he sat in 
his seat, forgetful of his knot hole, for- 
getful of the sweet solace of knuckle- 
cracking, until the teacher called his 
name, and then he stood up worse scared 
than ever, because to reach the teacher’s 
desk, he had to pass right in front of 
the crying girl. 

Eh bien! Valere, in his fright, had 
made such an awkward job of that pas- 
sage that just as he came opposite Marie 
he had dropped his precious primer at 
her feet. Marie, startled, had looked 
up. Straight into Valere’s eyes went 
her appealing glance, wet, sweet, scared. 
The glance had made Valere a brave 
man. He stooped boldly to recover his 
primer and said kindly to Marie: 

“ Doggone, you do just like one 
fool! ” 

Valere had struggled on to the teach- 
[ 183 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


er’s desk and said his abc’s; but he had 
learned something even finer than the 
alphabet that day, something, too, that 
he would not forget. He had learned 
how to make Marie Micou look up, and 
look straight into his eyes. C’est vrai, 
not even for the sake of that sweet, 
straight glance would Valere willingly 
throw his primer on the floor again, but 
there were other things that could be 
thrown at Marie’s feet — dead bugs, and 
queer worms, and flowers. But yes, 
flowers! The woods were full of them, 
all kinds and colors. So was the Dupre 
garden, and Marie learned about them 
all. As she came along the road to 
school, as she sat sewing on the San- 
terre gallery, or swept the yard, or 
worked in the garden, she would be 
startled into a swift raising of the eyes 
by a gift from Valere that was flung 
at her feet. 

In her loneliness and loyalty, Marie 
[ 184 ] 


The Man Who had no Head 

picked up the flowers that fell; but she 
did not wear any of them, until one 
morning, as she and Felicie trudged to 
school, she stooped to take a rosebud 
from the dust, and Felicie commented 
upon her action, saying with a touch of 
reproof : 

“ ’T was Valere t’row it.” 

“Das what I know,” Marie made 
answer. 

Felicie looked troubled. 

“Mais,” she objected, “you can’t 
take flower from Valere.” 

“ Pourquoi? ” Marie inquired. 

“Pourquoi?” Felicie repeated, and 
then the admission it hurt so to make 
came cutting its way from the secret 
places of her girl’s heart to her plucky 
lips: 

“ ’T is Aluin das wish to fetch flower 
for you.” 

“ But, me,” Marie explained, and her 
hand tightened on the bail of their din- 
[ 185 ] 


Mae IE or Arcady 


ner bucket, “ but, me, I don’t wish das 
he fetch flowers.” 

“ Mais, Marie,” Felicie cried, “ ’t is 
for Aluin to say for who he shall fetch 
flowers! ” 

Marie bravely shrugged her slender 
shoulders. 

“ Maybe! But ’t is for me to say for 
who I will wear de flower. And, me, I 
will wear de flower for Valere. Voila! ” 
And before Felicie could prevent her, 
she thrust the dusty rosebud into her 
hair and marched into school, wear- 
ing it. 

Eh bien! The first time Valere had 
seen Marie pick up one of his flowers 
he had gone away on his wobbly legs 
farther and farther until he came to the 
edge of a swamp where owls slept the 
day away, and dead leaves were ever 
rotting. There was a place in the swamp 
deeply shaded by grass that grew tall 
around a decaying log, and there Valere 
[ 186 ] 


The Man Who had no Head 

went to lie face upward, on the side 
nearest the swamp. God knows why! 
But it was there he always went when- 
ever he was shaken, and there he lay in 
hiding until the stirring pulses that had 
scared him beat down again to the dumb 
beast’s throb and halt. When all was 
still within him, Valere would go wob- 
bling back again to his place among the 
people on the Bayou. And not even 
L’Un could make him tell where he had 
gone or why he went. 

But the day that Marie came into 
school with his dusty rose in her hair, — 
that day Valere did not run away to his 
log in the swamp. No! Very still he 
sat in his seat, smiling to feel how hard 
his heart hammered him, — and heaven 
knew what things he thought; but after 
dismissal, when the school was crowding 
out on the playground, Valere struggled 
through the throng to Marie’s side and, 
having managed to bring himself to a 
[ 187 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


stand before her, stood up straight, 
though unsteadily, and said to her 
gravely, proudly: 

“ Dere ain’t man on Bayou can make 
fire under pot so fine like me, ’T is my 
papa say das ! ” 

Marie, abashed by this unexpected 
opening, looked up and looked away — 
into Aluin’s watching eyes. 

Aluin smiled reassuringly, and came 
at once to Valere’s elbow, saying 
blithely: 

“Voila, Valere! What ’tis you talk 
to my girl? ” 

Marie turned quickly and ran to join 
Felicie. Aluin smiled and walked away 
slowly. But Valere stood still in the 
sunshine, all the pride of his bearing 
bending beneath a great load of trouble. 
Fear? Anxiety? What it was that bent 
him Valere did not know. Only that it 
hurt him, — hurt him until it drove him 
to seek for solace. Not to the swamp, 
[ 188 ] 


The Man Who had no Head 

nor to his father’s house. The Moise 
place was a mile away, a weary, weary 
mile for his wretched legs; but it was 
thither that Valere’s hurt would have 
him go. And there he went. 


[ 189 ] 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 

NO ANSWER 

Marie Micou’s days were becoming 
difficult, but they were not her only 
difficult times. There were nights, dark 
nights, when she lay beside Felicie and 
with her black eyes open upon the dark- 
ness saw all that it had to show her; see- 
ing, sometimes, stars that hung forever 
in their lonesome places; seeing, some- 
times, a moonbeam that gleamed upon a 
threatening stick, — a moonbeam that for 
all it shone upon a sununer night, looked 
cold and cruel, and cast an ugly shadow 
at her feet, a shadow the more hideous 
in that it cut her off forever from the 
only refuge she knew. At the sight of 
that shadow Marie would hear again the 
rip and rasp of an angry old voice, ac- 
cusing, convicting. How the owner of 
[ 190 ] 


No Answer 


that voice had danced in his fury, and 
his shadow, — how it had danced also, 
as he called her thief and meutriere, and 
swore that her hands were dirty with the 
blood that had been shed because of her 
wrongdoing. Marie would feel again 
the beat of his hot breath as he caught 
at her, crying that she should hang by 
the neck, and then her thoughts would 
flee and flee away from the threat of 
voice and hand — from her accusing con- 
science. Yet when her thoughts had 
made an end of their fleeing it was in 
a glow not unlike exaltation that she 
would slip out to the well and wash her 
hands. Her hands were clean once 
more, and she would keep them clean. 
Mary in Heaven would help her. Then, 
praying, Marie would see it all again, 
— the temptation, — the island lapped 
by blue water, and the willows that 
wound round it; the fields of cowpeas 
and tobacco. Seeing, also, a pirogue 
[ 191 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


that, driven by conscious guilt and the 
terror born of it, shot swiftly across the 
blue water only to be turned over and 
adrift as it touched the river’s farther 
shore. 

Seeing all that the darkness had to 
show her, Marie looked and shrank not, 
for Madame Sam’s good fish soups had 
told upon her nerves. She would not 
have cried now if they had asked her, 
these kindly ones, whence she came and 
why? Not that she could have told them, 
for already she had made her resolve: 

“ All time I will watch. If I see das 
old man come, I will jump, I will run. 
Mais I don’t tell nobody not’ing till I 
have buy stove for Madame Sam.” 

But Bienvieu had ceased to question 
concerning Marie Micou. Voila, all 
Bienvieu was splitting rails, — the lean 
M. Paul, the red-headed Jean Cham- 
petre, the big Monsieur, the muscular 
M. Reneau. All splitting rails for the 
[ 192 ] 


No Answer 


lane that was to be made through the 
land now called Camusette’s. Aluin also 
— smiling to himself while he worked. 

“ When de boys begin to t’row sticks 
at de persimmon trees, den will I have 
talk wit’ Mademoiselle Marie,” he prom- 
ised himself once again, as maul and 
wedge did their beautiful work under 
his strong, skilled hands. Not a man on 
the Bayou could split a straighter or a 
cleaner rail than Aluin. 

Eh bien, the scholar was splitting 
rails too, bending his bowed old back 
to the task, glad to help a neighbor, 
laboring willingly in the hot September 
weather. When M. Reneau heard about 
it he slapped a saddle on his most im- 
patient pony and went at a run to tell 
M. Moise. 

“ Damne, Moise,” he said, and shoved 
back his hat to wipe at the sweat, “ Sam 
Santerre ’s going split some rails for das 
fence.” 


[ 193 ] 


13 


Makie of Akcady 


“ Sho, sho,” said Monsieur. He rested 
on his maul and looked away thought- 
fully through the thickening woods. 
“ Eh bien, Victor, I reckon Sam t’inks 
he like to split some, maybe.” 

“But look how he split!” the mag- 
nate burst forth in exasperation. “ One 
end big like post; one end little like 
picket. When he make fence — he don’t 
make not’ing but holes, no!” 

“ Holes, sho,” said M. Moise, and 
began to consider it. The magnate’s im- 
patience could not await a decision. He 
said pointedly: 

“ My God! I wish to know what das 
Camusette will t’ink when he see dose 
rails. I reckon, me, he will t’ink dere 
ain’t man on Bayou can split rail fit for 
fence.” 

“ Sho, sho,” Monsieur soothed. Then 
he added kindly: 

“ Sam always wish to do his share 
same like I’autres.” 

[ 194 ] 


No Answer 


“ But he always go make mess,” the 
magnate protested hotly. “ Damne, ’t is 
his share das spoil job. I t’ink, me, 
better tell him not to split.” 

M. Moise lifted his maul and set it 
down with emphasis, then he said cour- 
teously: 

“ If Sam wish to split, he will split. 
Dose big ends, dey is fine for go in 
ground. Fine, sho. Me,” M. Moise 
explained deliberately, “ I always wish 
to have big end for go in ground, and 
little end for go in air.” 

The magnate understood. Sam San- 
terre’s crooked rails would be the stakes 
that stayed that fence. Though he, M. 
Victor Reneau, should rave, he could 
not change the position M. Moise had 
taken. 

“ ’T will spoil job,” he predicted irately. 

“ Sho, sho,” the big Monsieur sympa- 
thized gently. 

So it happened that when the day for 
[ 195 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


building the fence had come and the 
road was full of ponies and teams trot- 
ting and creaking toward the American’s 
long-deserted farm, there was the scholar 
at the end of the line with his load of 
crooked rails, ready and willing to do 
his share of fence building. He was an 
old man, the oldest on the Bayou, — 
very tall, very bowed, but always at 
work, working with an unflinching in- 
dustiy, working all the harder in that 
he generally did things wrong. 

And the scholar worked hard at the 
fencing of that lane, — so hard that roars 
of laughter burst irresponsibly from the 
younger men, and so ineffectually that 
many an impatient “ damne ” was smoth- 
ered by M. Reneau. 

M. Camusette did not work. Grim 
and non-communicative, he stood look- 
ing on, listening, perhaps, but taking 
no part in the rollicking interchange of 
laughter and jest and swear that made 
[ 196 ] 


No Answer 


such merry sport of that hard afternoon’s 
work. Not a word did M. Camusette 
have to say to anyone until the last 
stake was set, the last rider laid in, and 
the men began to tighten cinches and 
swing to saddle. Then Camusette drew 
slowly nearer to M. Moise and said al- 
most civilly: 

“ Das nice horse you got.” 

M. Moise, who was in the act of 
mounting, took his foot from stirrup 
and stood back to run an approving eye 
over his staunch sorrel. 

“ Yes, sir,” he agreed heartily, “ das 
is good horse I got dere. Good horse, 
sho. And dere is one t’ing about das 
horse. He don’t kick. No, sir, he 
never do kick.” He repeated the pleas- 
ant truth slowly: “He never do kick. 
No, sir; das is one good t’ing about 
das horse. Good t’ing, sho. He never 
do — ” 

The magnate and Champetre departed 
[ 197 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


at a sharp trot that quickly overtook 
the scholar, who never lingered to chat 
when work was done. Champetre reined 
to a walk, grinning, but Reneau kicked 
a foot free of the stirrup and bent one 
knee around the horn of his saddle, 
saying : 

“ When Moise begins to talk about 
das horse he ’s got — mon Dieu ! ” Cham- 
petre roared with delight, but the scholar, 
who would have died gladly for the big 
Monsieur, did not laugh. Instead, he 
turned to M. Reneau with a courtly 
protest : 

“ Mais, M. Reneau, das is nice horse 
M. Moise have. Certainly, certainly, 
sho! ” 

Camusette had ruthlessly interrupted 
M. Moise’s discourse as soon as the 
others left. 

“You ain’t hear yet about somebody 
das come run to Reneau’s house, ha? ” 
he demanded. 


[ 198 ] 


No Answer 


M. Moise slowly withdrew his satis- 
fied glance from his sorreFs reliable legs. 

“No, sir,’’ he returned courteously, 
“ I ain’t never hear of any body das 
come run to M. Reneau’s house. Mais, 
if ever I hear das somebody come run, 
I will send you word. Yes, sir, I will 
send you word, sho.” 

The talk about his horse, the question, 
and the answer had made M. Moise the 
last man to leave the scene of the fence 
building, and if M. Paul’s pony had 
not picked up a pebble, M. Moise would 
have ridden home alone, for he was mer- 
ciful to his horse, knowing well what a 
weight it carried, and he was perplexed 
anew by the wording of the dago’s 
question. Why should he expect Marie 
to run to Reneau’s house? 

Paul put the pony’s foot down as M. 
Moise came opposite, sprang to saddle, 
and reined his bony little beast along- 
side with a gallant air. 

[ 199 ] 


Marie of Aecady 


“ I believe, me, dis horse love pebble 
better dan he love corn,” he said gaily. 
‘‘ If dere ’s stone he can reach, voila, he 
pick him up.” 

“ Sho, sho,” M. Moise sympathized, 
and if it occurred to him that the pony 
looked as though it had rather more 
pebbles than corn, he did not say so. 

“ Yes,” Paul assured him, ‘‘ he love 
pebble. But he is good horse. Oh, he 
can run! If I put dis horse on track — ” 
he finished the sentence with a gesture of 
magnificence, and asked: 

“ Eh bien, Moise, what you t’ink about 
das fellow yonder? To me, seems like 
he is queer chap. Sit down like das all 
summer, and don’t do not’ing to his 
place. Mon Dieu, I wish to know where 
my place would be if I set down like 
das one day!'' 

M. Moise had dropped his reins to the 
sorrel’s neck and was contentedly rolling 
a cigarette. He said, ‘‘ Sho, sho,” and 
[ 200 ] 


No Answer 


passed his pouch over to Paul. He, and 
everybody else, knew that it was Ma- 
dame Paul and Herbert that worked the 
Paul place, but M. Moise listened cour- 
teously, and the little man ran on; 

“ And I have had to work dis sum- 
mer! Mon Dieu, the way grass have 
grow! So much rain, ha, Moise?” 

It had been a dry summer, but the 
big Monsieur never argued about the 
weather or anything else. So he nodded 
now and smoked. 

M. Paul lighted his cigarette, blew a 
whiff of the good tobacco, and said with 
charity: 

“ I reckon, me, maybe ’t is because he 
have no children why das queer fellow 
yonder don’t wish to work. If a man 
ain’t got some children, for what he wish 
to work? For what he wish to live? ” 

“ Sho,” M. Moise said in cordial as- 
sent. “ Man should have children. Yes, 
sir, man should have children,” and his 
[ 201 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


contented tones took on a deeper con- 
tent, for his house was in sight now, 
and, like a sweet scent from a flower, 
suggestions of home were coming to 
meet him, — Madame’s gay greeting; 
a good supper of gumbo and bread; 
peaceful talk in the twilight, with Ma- 
dame in a chair at his side, and Aluin, 
big and broad, on the steps. “ Sho,” he 
repeated, “man should have children. 
Better come in house, Paul.” 

“ Merci,” Paul replied graciously. 
“ ’T will be good for my horse to have 
rest. ’T is twenty miles I have ride das 
horse to-day! Yes, sir; man should 
have children!” 

“ Sho,” said Monsieur. He slipped 
the bridle from his sorrel’s head and sat 
down on his own front gallery with a 
sigh of content: 

“Yes, sir; man should have children.” 

“ But dey ’s troub’, Moise,” M. Paul 
objected. He tipped his chair against 
[ 202 ] 


No Answer 


the wall, rested his heels on the front 
rundle of it, and perched his hat on his 
knee. “ Oh, but yes, dey ’s troub’ ! Mon 
Dieu ! de troub’ I have wit’ mine ! ” 

M. Moise shook his head doubtfully: 

“ Das Herbert you got, he ’s pretty 
square chap.” 

M. Paul shrugged his shoulders 
grandly: 

“ Oh, mais oui, he pretty square chap, 
Herbert is. But I have de troub’ wit’ 
him. And I hear, me, you been have 
de troub’ wit’ your Aluin. How das is, 
Moise? ” 

The big Monsieur smiled humorously: 

“ No, sir; I ain’t never had no troub’ 
wit’ Aluin.” 

“ C’est vrai!” uttered M. Paul. “I 
fought, me, ’t would be de troub’ for 
you to have him make love wif das little 
stranger girl so much. I hear, me, ’t is 
all de time he talk wif her; ’tis all de 
time he fetch her flower; ’tis every day 
[ 203 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


he give her lead pencil, — long, red, lead 
pencil das ain’t never been sharp’! My 
Madame say, ‘ Mot’er in Heaven! I wish 
lo know what ’t is das Marie Micou do wit’ 
so much lead pencil ! ’ But I tell her, 
me, ‘ Das Marie Micou, she is stranger. 
Maybe ’t is in das place where she come 
from dose people dere eat de lead pencil.’ ” 
M. Paul laughed gaily at this witty 
notion that had occurred to him in the 
telling, and then jumped up quickly, 
sorry to his heart that he had hurt the 
big Monsieur. 

“ Voila, Moise,” he said and offered 
a parting hand. “ I was just play wit’ 
you. I reckon das boy you got ain’t 
said free words to das little stranger 
girl since she ’s been on Bayou. Eh 
bien, I reckon my horse is rest’. I better 
be going. Bon jour! ” 

M. Paul went stepping stylishly away 
to his horse, and Madame came out and 
sat down by M. Moise and said: 

[ 204 ] 


No Answer 


“ Mais, cher! Das can’t be so, what 
he say about Aluin.” 

Monsieur turned to meet her troubled 
brows and doubtful eyes: 

“ Das Zeno Paul,” he said. ‘‘ He lie 
heap.” 

“Yes,” Madame cried, “he lie heap, 
but me, I wish to know which time ’t is 
he lie. I wish to know if ’tis his first 
talk das is lie, or if ’t is his last talk.” 

Monsieur looked away at the setting 
sun. His boy in love with a girl who was 
being tracked and followed like a thief 
— or worse! 

“ I don’t know, me, if ’t is his first 
talk das is lie, or not,” he summed up 
slowly. 

“ Oh, cher,” Madame appealed, “ I 
can’t believe, me, Aluin — ” she stopped. 
Some one was coming through their 
front gate. It was Valere Dupre. 


[205 ] 


CHAPTER TWELVE 

THE WORDS UNDER THE HAT 

Valere came up the path between the 
flowers in M. Moise’s front yard, and 
tried to walk as becomes a man who 
brings a cause for grave complaint. 
Since Aluin had left him with that jest- 
ing reproof he had been struggling to 
reach this goal — to lay his wrongs be- 
fore the big Monsieur. And now his 
goal was reached. There was the big 
Monsieur waiting on the gallery; here 
was Valere and his wrongs. All he had 
to do now was to say the words he had 
been saying over and over as he struggled 
along, lest he should forget them — lest 
they should run away from him, as 
words so often did. 

“ Bon jour, Valere,” Madame said 
quickly. And ; 


[ 206 ] 


The Words under the Hat 

“Bon jour, Valere,” Monsieur 
greeted, adding kindly, “ won’t you 
come in house?” 

Valere did not say “ Bon jour.” He 
clung to his hat, and to the words he had 
brought: 

“ M. Moise, if girl can’t have two 
boys, den boy can’t have two girls. 
No!” Ah, he had said them, those 
words ! They had not got away 1 Valere 
pulled his hat down hard on top of his 
ears, and laughed aloud. 

“Ma foi, Valere!” Madame said 
softly. 

Valere was not heeding her; his eyes, 
round and bright, were watching M. 
Moise with unblinking anxiety. 

“ No, sir,” Monsieur answered gravely. 
“ No, sir; it ain’t right for boy to have 
two girls. Ain’t right, sho.” 

Valere, in triumph, pulled his hat 
completely over his ears and held it there 
with both hands. 

[ 207 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ Then for why you don’t make Aluin 
quit das? ” he cried indignantly. “ Dog- 
gone! You do just like one fool!” 

Madame uttered a sharp Pas bon! ” 
but M. Moise asked patiently, cour- 
teously: 

“And what ’tis you wish I make 
Aluin quit, maybe, Valere? ” 

“ Make him quit das have two girls,” 
Valere cried, and gripping his hat 
tightly lest the bursting sentences slip 
from under it, he laid his wrongs before 
the big Monsieur: 

“ Me, I wish to pet hair wit’ Felicie 
— mais non, Felicie is for Aluin! So, 
me, I get me not’er girl. I get me 
Marie Micou — mais oui, she wear my 
rose in hair! All time she do like das! 
To-day I was talk wit’ her apres I’ecole, 
and voila Aluin! ‘ Ha, Valere, for why 
’tis you talk wit’ my girl?’ ’T is das 
how he say! — Marie Micou, she is not 
for him, she is for me — ” 

[ 208 ] 


The Words under the Hat 

“ Eh bien, Valere,” Madame inter- 
jected. “ Aluin was just play wit’ 
you.” 

“ Mais non, he ain’t play,” Valere 
maintained, and clung to his hat, until 
only now and then could bright gleams 
be caught from his eyes, peering from 
beneath it so wistfully at M. Moise. 

“ Mais, non! he ain’t play. Doggone, 
you do just like one fool! Ain’t he all 
time bring her rose, bring her pencil, 
bring her t’ing on paper? Mais non, he 
ain’t play.” And Valere turned in anx- 
ious entreaty to M. Moise: 

"‘You going make him quit das, if 
you please. Monsieur? Marie Micou, 
she is for me. She wear my rose in hair 
— all time. She don’t wear Aluin’s rose, 
non! ” 

“ Sho, sho,” M. Moise said soothingly, 
but he said it mechanically. He was not 
heeding that pitiful pleading. His hand 
had opened and closed on Madame’s, and 
[ 209 ] 


Maeie of Arcady 


he was feeling her thin fingers, troubled, 
trembling in his palm. 

Valere, pleased and comforted by that 
mechanical assurance, took off his hat, 
and gave his host and hostess a polite 
good day; but if Monsieur or Madame 
heard him, or if they answered him, they 
never knew. They did not see Valere 
as he made his difficult way down the 
path to the gate. Together they were 
looking at the western band of pines 
behind which the sunset had been fading 
so peacefully — this time yesterday. It 
was all dun-colored masses now, with 
here and there clear streaks that looked 
clean — clean as Marie Micou’s hands. 
Yet though they looked so steadily at 
them, they hardly knew when the dun 
masses above the pine-tops, and those 
ghastly clean streaks beneath, merged 
into one drift of dusk. Hand in hand, 
M. Moise and his Madame sat together, 
fronting this harsh truth mutely, as they 
[ 210 ] 


The Words under the Hat 

had faced together that loss of long ago. 
Neither moved; neither spoke ; but after 
a little, the asters by the gate moved and 
nodded, stirred by a breeze from flutter- 
ing skirts. There were eager footsteps 
coming up the sanded pathway; there 
was an eager voice saying sweetly, 
timidly: 

“Madame Moise?” 

At the sound of that voice the clasped 
hands leaped to a closer clasp, but it was 
not now that Madame’s ready tongue 
could give its quick response. Monsieur, 
usually so slow of speech, answered the 
appeal and said at once: 

“ Bon soir, Marie. Won’t you come 
in house? ” 

“ Non merci. Monsieur; I t’ank you,” 
Marie returned hurriedly. “Madame, 
she is at home? ” 

“ Voici Madame,” Monsieur returned 
kindly, and leaned nearer to his little 
Madame, saying gently: 

[ 211 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ ’T is Marie Micou, Bebe. She wish 
to speak wit’ you.” 

‘‘ Bon soir, Marie,” said Madame at 
last, but she could say no more. Her 
lips were dry, and her throat choked. 
Madame was scared. ,What did Marie 
Micou wish with her? 

Marie lost no time in setting forth her 
wishes. 

She ran up the steps, seized Madame’s 
free hand, crowded into it a hard little 
package, and cried-: 

“ Voila, de stove! ” 

“Stove?” uttered Madame. 

“ Mais oui,” Marie cried eagerly. 
“ Dose mesdames, dey send me free 
dollar for das last mouchoir I make. 
’T is but now das Madame Sam fetch it 
me. Voila, de stove. Madame Sam will 
be proud. ’T is you say das. Madame 
Sam will be proud. Dere won’t be 
woman on Bayou so proud like Madame 
Sam if she have stove.” 

[ 212 ] 


The Words under the Hat 



‘‘ Sho, sho,” Monsieur said, to cover 
his Madame’s silence. ‘‘ Madame will 
take money, and she will make buy for 
you like she say she will make. Mais, 
Marie, I reckon ’t will be one week 
before she can do like das.” 

“ One week? ” Marie cried in distress. 

“ Mais oui,” Monsieur sympathized 
with her disappointment. ‘‘ Bat, he 
ain’t got some stoves in store now. I 
hear him tell man like das, — ’t is yes- 
terday. But if you wish das Madame 
take money, and make buy for you, 
when Bat get some stoves in store, she 
will do like das for you. Like das, 
sho!” 

It was a long speech for M. Moise to 
make, and the length of it, and the steadi- 
ness told on his Madame’s shaken nerves. 
She took up the tale with a touch of her 
usual vivacity: 

“Mais oui, Marie. I will buy stove 
for you when stove comes. Mais, maybe 
[ 213 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


you better keep your money in your 
hand — ’’ 

“ Non, non,” Marie protested. “ You 
will keep it, if you please, Madame. And 
Madame Sam she will be proud. ’T is 
in one week she will be proud.” 

“You better stop and rest, Marie,” 
M. Moise suggested kindly. “ ’T is long 
way you come, and ’t will be long way 
you go.” 

“ Non merci. Monsieur. I have not de 
time. ’T is Valere Dupre das walk wit’ 
me, and he have de legs. Ah, Heaven! 
He have de legs.” There were shy 
thanks sweetly repeated, timid farewells, 
and hurrying footsteps, and Marie was 
gone, leaving the unhappy ones to their 
unhappiness, and leaving with them also 
a troubled doubt to give their unhappi- 
ness a wilder twist. 

“ ’T is funny how she do,” Madame 
said. “ I wish to know, me, if she have 
head. If she go wit’ das Valere, I can’t 
[ 214 ] 


The Words under the Hat 

believe, me, Aluin would wish to go wit’ 
her ” — she started up all alive with a 
glad thought: 

“Oh, cher, maybe ’tis Valere lie I” 
Monsieur shook his head slowly: 

“ Das Valere Dupre, he don’t lie, no! ” 
“ Mais, maybe, Aluin was just play 
wit’ him. Just — ” 

Monsieur could see only the truth of 
it. He shook his head again: 

•“ If he take her pencil das is long and 
red, and ain’t never been sharp’ — ’tis 
dix sous dey cost, dose pencil.” 

Hope, however, was alive once more 
in Madame’s heart. 

“ Maybe dose pencil ain’t long; maybe 
dey ain’t red. ’T is Zeno Paul say das, 
and — ” Her hope failed her. 

“ Oh, cher! ” she appealed, “ I wish to 
know if ’twas M. Paul’s first talk das 
was lie, or if it was his last talk, maybe? ” 
Monsieur turned toward her: 

“ Bebe,” he said gently, “ das day in 
[ 215 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 


school when Aluin wish to have fight wit’ 
Herbert Paul, ’t was about Marie Micou 
he wished to fight. Ain’t you t’ink about 
das? And das night when he was sit on 
steps dere and tell you dere ain’t nobody 
ever kiss Marie Micou good-night, Mon 
Dieu, I don’t know, me, why I ain’t 
never t’ink den how ’t was wit’ him! ” 

Madame crept closer with a whisper: 

“ And me, I ain’t never fought ’t all,” 
she sighed. 

And so silence came again, and they 
sat forgetful of bedtime, forgetful of 
rest and of weariness, watching the stars 
having their way with the night. 

Monsieur at last broke the silence, 
saying heavily: 

“ If I knew, me, for why she wash her 
hands so much.” 

It always made Madame savage to see 
her old man suffer. She lost sense of her 
own pain now in a passion of pity for 
him, and said indignantly: 

[ 216 ] 


The Words under the Hat 



“ If she have people, I wish to know, 
me, for why dey don’t come get her. Das 
ain’t way for young girl to do. Run 
here, run dere like she was stray turkey! 
Her people should come get her, and 
take her home, and shut her in house. 
Ma foil I wish to know what kind of 
people ’tis das let young girl go trav’ 
like she was turkey!” 

“ I reckon she ain’t got some people, 
maybe, Bebe,” Monsieur said, and his 
voice was a shade less sad. Then the 
dago’s question settled down on him and 
again he put it deliberately, wretchedly: 

‘‘ If I knew, me, for why she wash her 
hands so much! ” 

Madame took another sharp departure 
in search of comfort: 

“ Oh, she have to wash her hands so 
much for das sewing she do. Madame 
Sam was talk to me ’bout das. She say 
dose mouchoirs, dey get dirty so easy, 
yes! And she say de people won’t pay 
[ 217 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


if ’tis dirty. Won’t pay ’tall. Voila, 
cher! She say dose mesdames tell her 
first time if de people ain’t satisfied — 
’t is how dey say — ain’t satisfied^ den 
dey don’t pay Marie not’ing and dey 
don’t pay Madame Sam not’ing for 
fetch work. I reckon Marie keep her 
hands clean for das. And maybe ’t is 
Aluin is just play wit’ her,” she added 
hopefully. 

“Non,” Monsieur decided. “I don’t 
reckon he is play wit’ her. I reckon 
he is going make marry wit’ her. And 
if he love her, Bebe, he should make 
marry wit’ her. Das is right. Boy 
should make marry wit’ girl he love.” 

“ Yes,” Madame admitted, and she 
put the converse clearly: 

“ If boy don’t make marry wit’ girl 
he love, ’t is going be bad for baby.” 

“ Sho,” said Monsieur. It had been 
too long in force upon the Bayou to per- 
mit of either plea or protest, this law that 
[ 218 ] 


The Words under the Hat 

required love to be the basis, and only 
basis, of marriage. Being in force, and 
having been long in force, it was respon- 
sible in part for the beauty of the Bayou 
children — for their laughing strength 
and length of life. Love endures. 

“ Sho,” said the big Monsieur. “ Boy 
should make marry wit’ girl he loves.” 

Eh bien, before the immutable laws of 
God man bares his head. 

M. Moise bared his head, bared it black 
as a coal with all the fine uplift of youth ; 
but the baring of it bowed that big black 
head a hit, and day by day took the black- 
ness from its temples ; took the thickness 
from its crown. Monsieur who had been 
wont to come in and out with the spring 
of springy arteries, now began to go 
more slowly; stopping in the doorway 
to look out at the pine trees washing their 
tops in the morning mist; at the clouds 
washing the earth with their fulness; at 
the work of the wild winds wiping the 
[ 219 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


sunset clean. Ah, Heaven, so much of 
washing and making clean must the big 
Monsieur stop to look upon ! The brown 
Bayou washing the pilings of its bridge, 
the dew-drops washing the flowers! It 
would seem that the weight of all that 
washing fell heavily upon Monsieur’s 
shoulders. Those shoulders of his, strong 
as a bull’s and broad ; shoulders that had 
carried the load of little children’s grief 
and of strong men’s perplexities ; borne, 
too, the more wearying burden of 
woman’s worries, — those stout shoulders 
began to bend now beneath the weight 
laid upon them by one pair of little, 
clean, girlish hands. 

“ If I knew, me, for why she wash her 
hands so much,” he said wistfully to his 
Madame again and again as the heavy 
days drew by. It was the only moan he 
made. 

“Pauvre gar^on!” Madame would 
sob under her breath as she watched him 
[ 220 ] 


The Words under the Hat 

going slowly to his work or pausing 
wearily over some task that had seemed 
but a plaything a week ago. “ Pauvre 
gar^on! Das Marie Micou going most 
kill my old man. Ma foi! I wish to 
know, me, what for her people don’t 
come get her! Ma foi! I wish, me, I 
could spank das Aluin wit’ board, yes! 
If Marie have people, I t’ink, me, she 
better go back to her people. ’T is not 
for young girl to go trav’ like she was 
stray turkey. I should t’ink Madame 
Sam would tell her das. If das old 
scholard ain’t take her in his house so 
fast, she ain’t never stay on Bayou. But 
das scholard! He all time make mess! 
Ma foi! I wish to know for why a man 
want make mess all time, maybe. If das 
little L’Un ain’t stop her in road, she 
ain’t never come in schoolhouse. She 
ain’t never see Aluin ’t all. But das little 
L’Un he is had chap. All time he is had 
chap. I should t’ink his mamma should 
[ 221 ] 


Marie op Arcady 


whip him for das. Stopping stranger 
girl in middle of road to talk wit’ her. 
Das ain’t way for little chap to do. Ain’t 
way ’t all.” 

But for all her indignation and for all 
the ache in the mother heart of her, that 
yearned over the big Monsieur as if he 
had been a baby that suffered in her 
arms, Madame Moise could do nothing; 
nothing but make the best gumbo and 
the best bread and the best coffee that it 
had ever been given her to make ; nothing 
but be ready always with a word of cheer, 
a hopeful doubt, a reason why Marie 
should necessarily keep her hands so 
clean. This Madame did while her own 
heart mourned its loss in secret, the loss 
of the daughter she had hoped to have, 
the daughter with brown eyes full of 
laughter and a crown of warm, brown 
hair: 

“ Ah, Heaven ! ” she whispered to the 
silences, “ I should have been glad for 
[222 ] 


The Words under the Hat 

Felicie. I should have been proud for 
her'' 

And yet, one other thing Madame 
Moise could do, must do, indeed, for the 
money was in her hand. She must buy 
the stove for Madame Sam. 


[ 223 ] 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

A BARGAIN 

Yes, Madame Moise must buy that stove 
for Madame Sam. Never for a moment 
did she doubt that. Nor was it Madame 
Sam who had taken in the stranger, 
who had insisted that the stranger go to 
school. It was M. Santerre who was to 
blame; Madame Moise recognized that. 
As soon as word came that Bat Santerre 
had received his new stock of stoves, she 
set out to make the purchase and went 
willingly. 

“ It will be fine for Sara,” she said. 
“ I ’m glad, me, she will have stove before 
she die.” 

So down the Bayou to Bat Santerre’s 
store went Madame Moise. A little while 
ago — only one week — how gay would 
have been her going! Madame shook 
[ 224 ] 


A Bargain 


her head under its bobbing black bonnet. 
Her day for glad things was over and 
done with. Not that she bowed or bent 
before this blow. The live little Madame 
was full of fire and fight, and though to 
fight was useless and the fire of no avail, 
the hot stuff was there, and the little 
Madame got the good of it, in at least 
that it kept her well warmed up. In- 
wardly she berated Marie for having 
come to the Bayou, and inwardly she be- 
rated Aluin for having fallen in love with 
the wrong girl, and all this energetic be- 
rating kept Madame Moise bright-eyed 
and eager, and ever on the alert to seize 
some chance to comfort her old man’s 
aching heart. Of his heaviest trouble — - 
the dago’s question — she knew nothing. 

Along the Bayou Madame went. The 
white path followed every turn and twist 
of the brown water, and every turn had a 
meaning, every twist a remembrance. 
Here was the shelving bank and sandy 
15 [ 225 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

bottom where L’Un had ducked Jose- 
phine. And when Herbert’s wrath had 
fallen upon them for their irreverent 
treatment of his girl, here was the path 
the little chaps had traveled as they 
carried to Josephine their dearest one — 
their spotted kid — as a peace offering. 

‘‘ Poor little devils,” Madame Moise 
said softly. She had been an eye-witness 
of that pilgrimage for pardon. L’Un 
marching manfully with the kid in his 
arms and little L’Autre following, suck- 
ing in his chin and patting the kid’s bit 
of tail in a valiant effort to attain to 
L’Un’s standard of manhood. 

“ Poor little devils. I know, me, dey 
is bad, but I ’m glad ’Zephine give dem 
back dere kid. ’T is fine girl, das Jose- 
phine. She ain’t so full of fun like 
Felicie is,” Madame stopped and sighed. 

“ I t’ink, me, she was love Aluin long 
time. I t’ink so. Eh bien.” 

And so Madame’s bonnet bobbed along, 

[ 226 ] 


A Bargain 

bend after bend, until she began to near 
Bat’s store, and to be conscious of the wad 
of money tied up in her handkerchief. 

“Eight dollars!” she said suddenly 
aloud. Madame had boarded school- 
teachers, and the ’Cajan “ dollar ” had 
gained a frill in her speech. It seemed a 
great deal of money to be spending all at 
one time. “Eight dollars!” The re- 
sponsibility of it began to weigh upon 
Madame. 

“ I pray God, me. Bat ’s got some nice 
stove dere. Eight dollars ! ’T is too 
much money to spend for just one t’ing. 
I believe, me, I will make Bat give me 
pot aussi. Ma foi! If I can make him 
give me tea-kettle.” And Madame began 
to glow with the bargain fever, so quick 
it is and vain, that human yearning to 
get something for nothing. 

“But if I can make him t’row in 
tea-kettle — ” 

Voila, Madame had reached the store. 
[ 227 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


There was nobody there but the owner, 
busy with his stock in the rear, and 
Madame drew a deep breath as she 
walked back slowly looking at the folds 
of cloth on the shelves, the rolls of ribbon 
in the show-cases, and the stick candy in 
the jars. 

“ Bat ’s got nice store here,” she re- 
flected with complacent pride, — for Bat 
was a Bayou boy. “ I reckon if he ain’t 
make marry wit’ one of M. Reneau’s 
girls and have to live so fine he could 
get stove for his mamma, maybe. Mais 
das ’Torine! She wants so much. I 
hear, me, she is going have her fence 
whitewashed again, and ’tis not free 
years since it was whitewashed last 
time! Bon jour. Bat!” 

“ Madame Moise! Bon Jour!” Bat 
stretched an eager hand over the counter 
and Madame clasped it cordially: 

“ And ’Torine and de children, dey is 
weU? Yes?” 


[ 228 ] 


A Bargain 

“ Mais oui, Madame. Dey do fine. 
Et toi? ” 

‘‘ Yes,” said Madame. “ T’ank you. 
I ’m right well, me.” 

“ C’est bon,” Bat remarked heartily. 
Then he added with concern: 

“ I see M. Moise Thursday. Seem like 
he ain’t look’ so hearty.” 

‘‘Oui? T’ursday?” 

“ T’ursday. He ain’t been sick, 
maybe? ” 

“ Mais non, he ain’t been sick! ” 

“ I ’m glad, me,” Bat said, and he 
meant it. 

Madame spoke of the weather: “ Das 
rain we have last week, ’t was fine for my 
turnip. Me, two, free days I had plant 
seed and das rain bring dem right up.” 

“ Bien,” Bat commented cordially. 

“ And you? ” Madame inquired cour- 
teously. 

“No,” Bat admitted, “we didn’t get 
our turnip plant till after rain.” 

[ 229 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

Madame was ready with a word of 
comfort : 

“ I reckon, me, ’t is good t’ing for 
you, maybe. You see how ’tis. Bat, 
when rain bring up seed, it bring up 
grass aussi.” 

“ Mais oui, Madame. And ’t is so 
papa say aussi. But me, I like to see 
t’ings come up.” 

“ Et moi aussi!” and Madame laughed, 
laughed merrily. Void, it is so exhila- 
rating this going abroad to buy! Even 
though she be all heart-broken and 
unhappy, if she have French blood 
in her, Madame must laugh when she 
buys. 

“ Voila, Bat,” Madame cried gaily, 
“ you can’t t’ink what ’t is I come abroad 
to buy.” 

Bat put on, promptly, his pleasantest 
smile: 

“ Some clot’, maybe? I got some 
nice — ” 


[ 230 ] 


A Bargain 


“ Oh, mais non! ’T is not clot’.’’ 

‘‘ ’T is some grocerie, maybe? I have 
just — ” 

‘‘ Mais non, ’t is not grocerie. You 
can’t t’ink, ha? ’T is stove!” 

“ Stove! ” Bat looked astounded, and 
Madame laughed more merrily than be- 
fore. 

“Mais oui! Stove! I wish to know 
if you have some nice stove. La gross 
comme-^a! And bright! I don’t want 
any you’ old rusty stove. No!” 

“ Oui, I got some nice stoves,” Bat 
assured her, “ and dey ’s bright. Dey ’s 
new. ’T is only yesterday I get dem 
in. You will come dis way — ” 

Bat led the way to his little hardware 
department and Madame followed, com- 
menting freely on all she saw: 

“ I see you have plenty soap ! I wish 
to know, me, if you going get some of 
das octagon soap, maybe? ” 

Bat asked alertly: 

[ 231 ] 


Marie of Arcady 



“You t’ink das good soap, das oc- 
tagon? ” 


Madame shrugged: 

“ Oh, I don’t know, me! I ain’t buy 
some soap since I get married. I ’m 
like your mamma. She laugh, she tell 
me she can take two, free old bones and 
some pitch and some lye and make heap 
better soap dan she can buy in store.” 

“ Aussi, mamma make good soap,” 
Bat said proudly. 

“ Certainment, she make good soap,” 
Madame Moise assented courteously. 
“Dere ain’t Madame on Bayou — 
And das is dose stove you fink so fine, 
ha?” 

“Ain’t dey bright?” Bat demanded. 

“ Yes,” Madame said doubtfully, “ dey 
is bright.” 

.“Ain’t dey big?” 

Madame looked the stove over and 
put up her lips slowly: 

“ I don’t know if dey is big enough 
[ 232 ] 


A Bargain 


for price. What ’tis you ask for stove 
like das, maybe?” 

“ Eight dollars.” 

“Eight dollars! Huite! Oh, mais 
non! Das stove ain’t big enough for 
eight dollars. Bat.” 

“ ’T is how man das make it t’ink,” 
Bat protested. 

“Ma foi!” Madame said slightingly. 
“ Man das make das stove don’t get 
eight dollars for it. He don’t get five 
dollars for it. Ma foi! Ain’t I know 
how das is? Man das make das stove 
sell it to factory; factory sell it to man 
in New Orleans; man in New Orleans 
sell it to you, — every man das sell it 
make dollar on it, — and you, you t’ink 
you going sell it to me. Maybe! But 
not for eight dollars, no!” 

Bat laughed. 

“Bien! I sell it to you for eight 
dollars, yes. But den I t’row in some- 
thing.” 


[ 233 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ And what das is you going t’row 
in,” Madame said smiling. “ Let me 
see das, if you please.” 

Bat picked up a five-cent pipkin and 
brushed the dust from it with a magnifi- 
cent gesture. 

“ Something like dis I will t’row in 
because ’t is you — ” 

“ Something like das,” Madame took 
up indignantly. “ Oh, mon Dieu, I can 
buy pot like das for five cents. Why 
you don’t be hig man and t’row in match 
for make fire in stove, maybe.” 

Bat grinned good-naturedly at the 
sarcasm. 

“ ’T is nice little pot,” he insisted. 

‘‘ ’T is little, sho,” Madame granted 
gaily, and looked around. There on 
the shelf was the tea-kettle she coveted, 
but it was worth a dollar if it was worth 
a dime. 

“ I reckon, me,” she shrugged, “ what 
you t’row in ain’t going be wort’ so 
[ 234 ] 


A Bargain 


much, maybe. I believe, me, I would 
rat’er pay you seven dollars for stove.” 

“ Mais, Madame ! Stove is wort’ more 
dan seven dollars.” 

“Wort’ more dan seven dollars! I 
wish to know, me, what ’t is make stove 
wort’ so much money. ’T is made of 
iron, and iron is cheap. Yes! Voila, 
de plow chain my old man buy for 
seventy-five cents. Aussi, plow-chain 
iron is strong iron. But de iron in dis 
stove, ’tis t’in. Ma foi! I never did 
see iron so t’in like dis door is. I can 
most stick pin t’rough it.” 

Bat laughed. 

“ Mais non, das door is strong iron,” 
he insisted pleasantly. “ And ’t is pretty 
door, too. Look dose fiowers. What 
kind of fiower you t’ink das is, maybe? ” 

Madame looked, her bright eyes peer- 
ing alertly at iron blossom and iron 
leaf; 

“ ’T is rose, maybe? ” 

[235 ] 


Marie or Arcady 


“ Non, ’t is finer flower dan rose,” Bat 
triumphed. “ ’T is pomegranate.” 

Pomegranate,” Madame echoed in 
shrill disdain. “ Pas bon ! Pomegranate. 
’T is Jew flower. ’T is Jew stove. Ha, 
Bat! I know, me, I ain’t going pay but 
seven dollars for your old Jew stove.” 

‘‘ Mais non, ’t is Catholic stove,” Bat 
retorted readily. “ ’T was Catholic man 
I buy it from. Eh bien, Madame. If 
you don’t t’ink das pot big enough I 
can t’row in one like das, maybe.” 

Madame Moise eyed the ten-cent 
saucepan with derision. 

“ If you t’row in ten pots like das, 
maybe I buy your old Jew stove,” she 
declared calmly. 

“ But, me, I ain’t got ten pots like 
dis,” Bat pointed out. 

Madame glanced over his stock. 

“ C’est vrai,” she admitted and sighed. 
Then she brightened: ‘‘ Mais voila! You 
have tea-kettle. You can t’row in tea- 
[ 236 ] 


A Bargain 


kettle, Bat.” She made the concession 
genially. 

Bat looked horrified: 

“Mais, mon Dieu! Das tea-kettle 
cost me dollar! ” 

“ Maybe,” Madame admitted. ‘‘ Mais, 
Bat,” and she put it with kindly pity in 
her tones, “ dis stove, it did n’t cost you 
eight dollars, no!” 

Bat flushed under the thrust. 

‘‘ But man must make his profit,” he 
cried. 

“ Make some profit, mais oui. And 
de people das buy, dey must make some 
profit aussi. Voila, you make some profit 
on stove, you make some profit on tea- 
kettle. You t’row in tea-kettle wit’ stove, 
and me, I make some profit on my buy.” 

Bat picked up a big pot. 

“ I can t’row in dis, maybe,” he said 
dubiously. 

“ But, me, I wish das you t’row in tea- 
kettle,” Madame explained gently and — • 
[ 237 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ Prete Foreille, Bat, eight dollars is 
too much money to pay for one t’ing.” 
She put it convincingly. 

“ I can sell you stove and tea-kettle 
for eight dollar and fifty cents,” Bat said 
sorrowfully. 

“ But, me, I ain’t got but eight 
dollars.” Madame shook her head over 
the sorrow of it. 

“ If I don’t make not’ing but freight, 
I can sell dem to you for eight dollar and 
quarter,” Bat conceded unhappily, 

Madame shook her head again, and as 
over a greater sorrow. 

“ I ain’t got quarter. Bat, I ain’t got 
dime. Voila what ’t is I have.” She un- 
tied her handkerchief and stacked the 
silver — dollars and halves and quarters 
— in tempting little shining pillars on 
the counter. That done she spread her 
hands wide and said again: 

“ Voila! ” 

And Bat did look at it. Not every 
[ 238 ] 


A Bargain 


day did he make cash sales to that 
amount. But — 

“ Mais, Madame. If I sell you stove 
and tea-kettle for eight dollar den tout 
le monde will t’ink I should sell — ” 

“ Non,” Madame corrected quickly. 
“ I don’t tell nobody, me, what ’t is I pay 
for my buy.” 

“ Bien,” Bat said. “ You take dem 
for eight dollar. You wish I put dem 
on gallery for M. Moise when he pass 
up road wit’ wagon? ” 

Madame pushed the stack of silver 
over to him; 

“ Non, merci,” she said calmly. “ ’T is 
not my old man das stop for dem. ’T is 
for your mamma I buy das stove.” 

“ For my mamma? ” 

“ Mais oui, certainment.” 

“ Mais, mais,” stammered Bat, getting 
hot with a red-hot thought. “ Pardon, 
Madame, but for who das money is? ” 

“ ’T is for you.” 

[ 239 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ ’T is for you? ’’ 

“Mais non. Das money is not for 
me! ’T is one week since Marie Micou 
run up steps, and put das money in my 
hand, and say to me: 

“ ‘ S’il vous plait, Madame, when you 
go ’broad to buy, you will take das money 
and buy stove for Madame Sam.’ Et, 
voila! I have bought stove.” 

Bat shook his head: 

“ Den dis money, it is for Marie 
Micou,” he began, but Madame whirled 
upon him like a fury: 

“Ferme!” she commanded. “First 
’t is your papa come say das money, it 
is for Marie Micou; den my old man he 
say das money it is for Marie Micou; 
and you t’ink you going say aussi das 
money it is for Marie Micou? Ferme! 
If money is for Marie Micou den ’tis 
for her to do like she wish? She wish 
to give it me for buy stove for Madame 
Sam, and she give it me; and me, I 
[ 240 ] 


A Bargain 


have buy stove for Madame Sam. Put 
dose dollars in drawer! and when your 
papa pass up road wit’ wagon tell him 
to take das stove along. Tell him ’tis 
me say das. Ma foil Seem like every 
man on Bayou wish to twist his tongue 
to keep your mamma from have stove. 
And ’t is since she was married she ’s 
been most crazy for stove. T’irty-t’ree 
years she have been want, now she have! ” 

Into the pause Bat spoke like a man 
escaping from a shower: 

“ Mais oui, Madame,” he said. He 
put the money into his cash drawer, then 
he began to put things on the stove. 
The tea-kettle, the big pot, the little pot, 
and the pipkin. 

'‘Don’t das look nice?” he asked. 
“ Mamma will be proud.” 

Madame looked and her eyes shone. 
She well knew that the store-keeper 
could ill afford to give such gifts: 

“You are one good boy. Bat San- 
16 [ 241 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


terre/’ she said softly. “ Dere won’t be 
Madame on Bayou so proud like your 
mamma will be. Oh, I t’ank God, me, 
she ’s going have das stove.” 

Before Bat could join in the thanks- 
giving, there came through the store the 
echo of a step that rang sharp and firm 
on the gallery. A tall, muscular man 
filled the doorway for an instant, then 
came swinging down the passageway be- 
tween the counters, walking with a long, 
strong stride. It was the sheep mag- 
nate, father-in-law of the store-keeper. 

Bat shot a warning look at Madame 
Moise and Madame shot back a look of 
perfect comprehension: 

“ Mais oui, moi sais,” she murmured. 
She turned to greet the great man with 
a gracious: 

‘‘Bon jour.” 


[ 242 ] 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

DAYS OF PURPLE AND GOLD 


‘‘Madame Moise! It is de pleas^^r^/” 
the magnate cried. He bowed over Ma- 
dame’s hand and inquired courteously: 

“ Comme-9a-va? ” 

“ Bien,” said Madame. “ And you? ’’ 

“ Well, t’ank you,” the magnate told 
her genially. “ And Moise, he is well 
aussi? ” 

“ He is right well,” Madame began, 
then she met the magnate’s eye and saw 
it film over: 

“ Sho,” he said. “ Moise don’t ride 
like he used. I see him yesterday. He 
was get’ on his horse — slow. Eh bien, 
some day me and Moise going quit be- 
ing young fellows. ’Tis long time we 
been das. He make his fifty-six years 
[ 243 ] 


Mae IE OF Akcady 


next winter, and me I got fifty-eight 
years now.’' 

Fifty-eight! Tall, strong man that 
he was, with the leathery skin of a 
herder, and the eyes of an eagle, 
deep-chested, straight as a sapling, 
he did not look a day over thirty- 
eight, and Madame’s smile of incre- 
dulity was not entirely a matter of 
courtesy : 

“ I reckon, me, M. Reneau, ’t will be 
good while maybe before you quit being 
young fellow,” she said. 

“Ha?” Reneau laughed, “you t’ink 
you keep me young, den you can keep 
your old man young aussi. Das is how 
you t’ink, ha, Madame Moise?” 

He put a gallant hand to Madame’s 
sleeve and they walked through the store 
and out upon the gallery, smiling at the 
joke. 

When they reached the gallery, the 
smile left the magnate’s eyes and he 
[ 244 ] 


Days of Purple and Gold 

turned to the little Madame with kindly 
concern: 

“ What das is I been hear about your 
Aluin? Lie, maybe?” 

Madame met the question with brave 
eyes: 

“ Non, Monsieur,” she said, “ I don’t 
t’ink, me, ’tis lie.” 

“ I ’m sorry,” Reneau told her sin- 
cerely. “ Sorry, sho. When I see Moise 
get on his horse slow like das yesterday, 
I t’ink, me, ’twas das.” 

Madame’s face flushed up and broke: 

“ ’T is hard on him,” she said un- 
steadily. 

“My God, yes! Tough, sho,” he 
turned with grave gallantry to the 
plucky little woman at his side: 

“ And for you aussi, ’t is tough.” 

“Oh, for me!” Madame flung out 
her hands. “ ’T is n’t wit’ woman as 
’tis wit’ man. Woman can cry.” 

“ Sho. Ciy, sho,” the magnate agreed. 

[245 ] 


Maeie of Arcady 

There seemed to be nothing more to 
say about it. Madame Moise could have 
talked all day about a hatching of ducks, 
but about her old man’s grief, his cruel 
disappointment, she could not talk. The 
magnate was naturally a silent man, 
silent save when he got mad. When 
M. Reneau was roused, words poured 
from him in a roaring cataract. Not 
even M. Moise might interrupt Re- 
neau’s speech when it gave vent to anger. 
But he was not mad now. Once a 
woman, very young, had come to him 
and cried and had not been comforted. 
His baby sister — his little Marie. 
Fifteen years ago — and where was she 
now? 

Standing by Madame’s side he looked 
away toward the willows by the bank, 
with eyes that were full of trouble for 
past and present. His pride in Moise’s 
fine boy had been second only to Moise’s 
own pride. Madame Moise, seeing, 
[ 246 ] 


Days of Purple and Gold 

could offer comfort only for present 
trouble, so she said: 

“ Seem like Marie is nice little t’ing 
— if she is stranger.” 

The magnate took his gaze from the 
willows and turned courteously: 

“ If we knew, Madame, from where 
she come, and for why she come. She 
ain’t never tell you das, no?” 

“ She ain’t never tell anybody das,” 
Madame sighed. 

The magnate said gently: 

“ Moise should ask her das, Madame. 
Boy, he ain’t going t’ink, but man 
should t’ink — all time.” 

‘‘ Pauvre gar^on,” Madame said softly. 
‘‘ I t’ink it is for das he worry so much.” 

‘‘ Sho,” said the magnate. “ I ’m sorry 
for him. Sorry, sho!” 

Again the magnate turned to stare at 
the willows, but Madame was too full 
of her own trouble now to offer com- 
fort. Suppose Marie had done some- 
[ 247 ] 


Makib of IAIecady 

thing wrong, something very wrong. 
Madame shuddered nervously. 

The magnate roused at her slight 
motion. 

“ Eh bien,” he said, “ I got to see 
Bat about getting me some cot’-meal. 
’Twill soon be time to begin feed de 
sheep. I reckon when winter come 
Moise is glad he ain’t got so much 
mouton as I got.” 

Madame raised her eyes and gave the 
smile breeding demanded. 

“Maybe ’tis he t’ink like das,” she 
agreed pleasantly, “Well, I better be 
hurry. My old man will be wish’ for 
his supper. Bon jour, Monsieur. You 
will tell Amelia ’tis free weeks I have 
been watch de gate for her? ” 

“ T’ank you. I will tell her das, sho. 
Bon jour, Madame,” he bowed over her 
hand, and then Madame’s bonnet went 
bobbing up the Bayou and Monsieur 
Reneau turned into the store to bargain 
[248 ] 


Days of Purple and Gold 

for a ton of cotton-seed meal. And 
under the bobbing and the bargaining 
beat hearts that ached — ached for the 
big Monsieur; and under the bobbing 
and bargaining throbbed thoughts that 
puzzled — puzzled over Marie Micou. 

“ Yes, sir,” Reneau said to his horse 
as he rode homeward; ‘‘yes, sir, Moise 
should ask her das. Boy ain’t going 
t’ink, but man should t’ink. If it kill 
him, he should t’ink. My God! I’m 
sorry for Moise.” 

Madame’s thought was taking a more 
active turn: 

“ If ’t is to ask Marie from where she 
come and for why she come, I reckon, 
me, I can do das, maybe. ’T will most 
kill my old man to do das, but, me, I 
reckon, maybe, I can do das for him. I 
reckon I can take her by arm — comme- 
9a ” — and Madame clutched valiantly 
with both hands at the empty air — 
“ mais oui, take her by hot’ arm and 
[ 249 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

say to her : ‘ From where ’t is you come, 
ha? For why ’tis you come?’” It 
would not be a pleasant thing to do 
and Madame made no effort to deny 
it. “ But,” she cheered her courage, “ if 
’tis den my old man ain’t worry so 
much — ” She broke away from the dis- 
tasteful task with indignation: 

“ I reckon Aluin ain’t fought ’bout 
das at all. No, not ’t all! ” 

Aluin had not thought about it at all. 
While his father’s big head bowed and 
his mother’s bright eyes saddened, Aluin, 
the well-beloved, was gay with the ner- 
vous gaiety of quickened blood. Big, 
brave, royally alive, he was in love, and 
the world loved with him. For him the 
woods put on their purple, the fields 
put on their gold. For him the Bayou 
dipped and darted, joying in his joy. 
And Aluin knew it. Knew, too, that it 
was nearly time now for the boys to 
begin to throw sticks at the persimmon 
[ 250 ] 


Days of Purple and Gold 


trees. Every morning the days grew 
keener, sweeter ; and, eh bien, every 
morning Marie Micou came to school 
and sat across the room from Aluin, 
studying hard. She was studying very 
hard, for she was trying to do all the 
things the scholar had enjoined her to 
do, — to learn to write, to read what she 
wrote, and to master the multiplication 
tables. Very meek was Marie behind 
her down-dropped lashes, obeying Ma- 
dame Sam’s slightest word, honoring 
Monsieur’s commands, following Feli- 
cie like a shadow. But yes, very meek! 
Never once had teacher found any fault 
in Marie Micou; never once had her 
mates made complaint against her. 
Very meek, — but with Aluin Moise she 
was not meek, no! If he offered her a 
rose she would refuse it with a demure: 

“ Non merci.” 

If Aluin persisted and laid the rose 
on her desk, Marie would sweep it to 
[ 251 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


the floor with a gesture that was not 
demure. And Aluin, with a teasing 
“ Bien merci/’ would pick up the re- 
jected flower and wear it on his coat 
all day. 

Any other boy in the school would 
have been discouraged or disgusted, but 
Aluin was delighted. He had never be- 
fore been refused a request, never be- 
fore had to fight for what he wanted, 
and he entered upon the conquest with 
a zest that knew no palling. He had 
picked Marie Micou for his girl and 
one day she would be his Madame. 
Aluin was as sure of the one as of the 
other. And when the school had closed 
for the summer term “ when de boys 
begin to t’row sticks at persimmon 
trees,” he meant to have a little talk 
with Marie and teach her to know what 
he knew. It was the thought of this 
talk that made him make such terrible 
mistakes in his multiplication tables 
[ 252 ] 


Days of Purple and Gold 


sometimes, and it was the thought of 
this talk that kept him silent so long 
the evening Madame, his mother, came 
home from her shopping expedition 
down the Bayou. 

Unconscious of the mother and father 
who sat so soberly in their chairs on the 
gallery above him, Aluin sat smoking 
silently on the bottom step until M. 
Moise interposed kindly. 

“You don’t want to smoke too much 
cigarette, Aluin,” he advised. 

Aluin answered gently without turn- 
ing: 

“ I ain’t smoking, papa.” 

Madame’s hand slipped into Mon- 
sieur’s and was crushed there. Their 
boy had been smoking steadily for an 
hour, but neither of them said anything. 
Nothing, indeed, was said until Aluin, 
driven by the desire to be alone, got up 
and went to his room in the rear, with 
a dreamy “ Bon soir.” 

[ 253 ] 


Marie of 'Arcady 

When he was well out of hearing 
Madame sighed. 

“ I reckon he will be talk’ to her 
pretty soon now, cher,” she said softly. 

M. Moise drew a breath, and after a 
a bit he said thoughtfully, and very 
slowly : 

“ If I knew, me, what for she wash 
her hand so much.” 

Madame thought of Reneau’s words 
but she did not repeat them. She in- 
stead cried cheerfully: 

“ I don’t believe, me, she wash her 
hands so much as she use’? And Sara, 
aussi, she say she don’t believe Marie 
wash her hands so much. She say she 
t’ink maybe ’tis because Marie sew so 
much. And she tell me how ’tis. Say 
she never did see work get dirty so 
quick like das work get. And if work 
get dirty, voila, cher! dose people dey 
won't pay — won’t pay not’ing ’t all for 
das work if it get dirty. And Sara say 
[ 254 ] 


Days of Purple and Gold 

das work get dirty easy, yes. Say Marie 
have to keep her hands clean — clean all 
time, cher. She say Josephine try to 
learn to do stitch like das. Sara, she 
laugh’ when she was tell me das. She 
say das work Josephine do was black, 
black as rag in kitchen, cher!” 

“ Sho, sho,” Monsieur sympathized 
gently, but after he had considered it 
the unhappy words came again, only 
slightly modified in their unhappiness: 

“ If I knew what for, when she come, 
she wash her hands so much.” 

Madame choked and swallowed, and 
then began, brightly, to tell him of the 
purchase she had made that afternoon; 
told eagerly of the stove — how bright 
and black it was; told joyously about 
the flowers on the doors — “ Pomegran- 
ates, cher!” told tenderly about Bat’s 
gift of pots; told triumphantly of her 
winning of the tea-kettle. And Mon- 
sieur, kindly considerate, listened to it 
[ 255 ] 


Marie or Arcady 

all. But in the end the darkness deep- 
ened, the talking failed. Monsieur and 
Madame rose wearily from their chairs, 
two lonesome old people defeated in 
their hoping. 

For a moment they stood together, 
looking away vaguely into the night 
the sinking moon had left them. Then: 

“ Eh bien, Bebe,” Monsieur said. He 
turned to enter the house, but in turn- 
ing his hand brushed her sleeve. At 
the touch his arm started into sudden 
life and gathered his little comforter 
close to his heart. 

“ T’ank God,” Monsieur said gravely 
when his lips left hers. 

“And me,” Madame whispered. 

And the Giver knew for what gift 
it was they returned thanks to him, all 
reverently, there in the dark, — for thirty- 
five years of loyalty; for thirty-five years 
of love; for thirty-five years of the deep, 
sweet comfort of being not alone. 

[ 256 ] 


Days of Purple and Gold 

M. Moise slept that night and dreamed 
neither of hands nor the washing of 
them, nor yet of questions that might 
not be answered; but Madame watched 
the black hours creep past her and 
thought, thought hard and unhappily, 
upon the thing she had resolved to do: 

“ It is like mean t’ing to go ask her 
question when she have just bought 
stove for Sara. I reckon, me, she will 
t’ink, ‘Ma foi! I wish to know why 
Madame Moise ain’t ask me some ques- 
tion before she take das money so quick 
for buy stove for dis fine friend she 
have.’ ’T is mean t’ing to do. Pauvre 
bebel If she get in troub’ and have to 
run — ’t is for her to know. ’T is not 
for me to go ask her das. If dog get 
in troub’ and run, dey don’t ask him 
not’ing. I should t’ink de people ought 
to be kind wit’ girl like dey is wit’ dog. 
I should t’ink dey should ask somebody, 
’T is not right to ask her, ’T is to make 
17 [ 257 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

her tell lie to go ask her like das. And 
das little Marie Micou, I know, me, she 
ain’t do not’ing mean since she ’s been 
on Bayou. Maybe — ma foi! I don’t 
know why I ain’t t’ink about das! — 
maybe she don’t tell when she come be- 
cause she ’fraid de people will want her 
go on because she have come from where 
fever is. Ma foil If ’tis like das, I 
wish to know what my old man would 
t’ink. If ’tis like das! But no,” and 
Madame’s heart got heavy again. “ If 
’twas like das she would tell it to Fe- 
licie by now. ’T is most two mont’s she 
have been here and ain’t tell nobody. 
But, me, I must ask her. ’T is too 
much for my old man, ’twill most kill 
him to go ask young girl tough ques- 
tion like das. And if I don’t ask her, 
den soon as she say yes to Aluin he will 
have to ask her. ’T is like M. Reneau 
say. Boy ain’t going t’ink, but man 
must t’ink. Eh bien, and woman also. 

[ 258 ] 


Days of Purple and Gold 

But ’t will be hard, Pauvre bebel And 
she have give all her money for stove. 
If I make her scare wit’ asking her so 
much question, and she run away again, 
she won’t have anyt’ing ’tall. Won’t 
even have sou for buy bread. Me!” 
and Madame sat up suddenly and de- 
fied the dark. “ Me, I will not ask 
question of Marie Micou till she have 
chance to make mouchoir again. Den 
if she run, she will have two dollar and 
fifty cents to run wit’. Maybe ’tis she 
will have free dollar. I will not ask 
her till she make mouchoir, tio/” And 
upon this resolution — or reprieve — • 
Madame Moise slept. 


[259 ] 


CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

THE LITTLE TALK . 

Another handkerchief had not yet been 
paid for by the Mesdames on Black 
Bayou, but on Bienvieu the boys had 
begun to throw sticks at the persim- 
mon trees; and so the time had come, 
as Aluin had planned it should, for him 
to have his talk with Marie Micou. 

Marie, it would seem, had resolved 
that the time for that talk should never 
come. Whenever Aluin came to the 
Santerre house she was busy, or “ gone 
abroad.’' Madame Sam made apolo- 
gies and Aluin took them, smiling good- 
naturedly while he talked to Madame, 
smiling slow, shy smiles when he talked 
to himself, drinking deeply of the joy of 
her shyness. 


[ 260 ] 


The Little Talk 


‘‘ Maybe ’t is,” he smiled, “ if das 
Mademoiselle Marie don’t quit das go 
abroad so much, she going meet me in 
road some day.” 

To give color to this probability Aluin 
formed the habit of always going in the 
same direction to hunt his steers or his 
horse; and when he went to or from 
the mill with his team, he always went 
the long way round that crossed the 
road above the Santerre place. Unless 
Marie stayed very closely at home, it 
did seem that she would meet Aluin in 
the road. But the scholar had made a 
discovery concerning Marie and had told 
it in surprise to his Madame, saying : 

“You know something, cherie, when 
das little stranger girl make her mind, 
she going stick to das mind she make 
till she die. Certainly, certainly, sho ! ” 

And Aluin seemed in a fair way to be 
taught by experience what the scholard 
had learned by observation. 

[ 261 ] 


Marie of Aecady 


He might haunt all the roads that led 
to the Santerre farm or from it, but he 
would never meet Marie there. When 
Madame sent her on an errand she took 
short cuts through glade and thicket and 
never traveled in the road at all. If 
Aluin was to be eluded, Marie meant 
to manage it. But Aluin was not al- 
ways to be eluded, for chance was play- 
ing into his hands. 

It was a cool autumn afternoon, late, 
with a lift of life in the air, and Marie, 
making the best of time returning 
from an errand to the Paul place, came 
swiftly through a thicket out into a 
glade, and into Aluin’s quiet presence. 

‘‘ Bon jour,” Aluin greeted in merry 
triumph. “ Bon jour. Mademoiselle 
Marie. You are going let me carry das 
bucket and walk home wit’ you, if you 
please? ” 

“No t’ank you,” Marie said, and 
there was nothing merry about her way 
[ 262 ] 


The Little Talk 


of saying it. She moved to pass him 
with a manner that calmly commanded 
Aluin to lift his hat and let her pass. 
Aluin knew what the manner meant, 
but it was getting late, with the soft, 
creamy lateness of an October twilight. 
There were red streaks between the pine 
trunks where the sun had set, and 
through the cooler air came now and 
then gushes, warm as milk just drawn, 
that lapped softly on lips and hands. 
Marie Micou looked beautiful in this 
loving light; looked pale and clear and 
bright as a star in June. 

Aluin did not lift his hat. Instead, 
he stood still, and the sturdy manhood 
of him trembled a little, for he knew 
that the time for his talk had come. 

“ Why you won’t let me walk wit’ 
you, Marie?” he asked, and his tone 
made Marie know that the time for the 
talk had come. 

Eh bien, Marie meant that the time 
[ 263 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


should not come — had resolved and 
would fight for her resolve. She raised 
her head and her black eyes flamed — 
a fine, proud fire: 

“ ’T is not right for girl to let boy 
walk wit’ her when she have told anot’er 
boy das all time she will walk wit’ 
him.” 

Aluin’s face began to get white slowly, 
but he tried to believe that she played 
with him; tried also to make her see 
that he but smiled at her reply. 

“ And Mademoiselle Marie, she have 
been told anot’er boy das all time she 
will walk wit’ him, maybe?” he asked 
humorously. 

“ Mais oui,” Marie said and flinched 
not. 

“Mais oui?” Aluin repeated. He 
looked into her eyes, almost stupidly. 
There was no mocking there. “ Mais 
oui? ” then he got back to the braver 
tone: 


[ 264 ] 


The Little Talk 


“ And who das boy is, if you please? ” 

“ ’T is Valere Dupre.” 

“Quoil” 

“ Mais oui.” 

‘‘ Quoi! ” 

But Marie could stand no longer and 
face the hurt and the horror in his eyes. 
With a dip and a dart of her lithe body 
she shot past him and would have been 
fleeing through glade and thicket in a 
breath, but Aluin swung swiftly and 
stood before her. 

“ Marie,” he said quietly, “ you mean 
das?” 

“ Yes,” Marie told him straightly, “ I 
mean das.” 

Aluin raised his hat and stepped from 
before her, and Marie fled for home — 
for the only home she knew. 

Safe inside the Santerre back yard, 
Marie stopped to catch her breath. 
Panting, she looked about her vaguely, 
and so looking, her eyes hghted upon 
[265 ] 


Makie of Arcady 


a late moon-flower, small and white, at 
the very top of the vine; the little blos- 
som stood out all alone against the 
waning light, and Marie thought it 
looked very lonesome there. 

“ Pauvre petite,” she said softly. 
“ ’T is all by itself up dere. It ain’t 
got no papa and it ain’t got no mamma. 
Pauvre petite! ” And Marie would have 
cried a little for the pretty blossom all 
by itself in its sweetness in the far, sad 
light had not Felicie at that moment 
seen her and set up an excited calling 
from the kitchen door: 

“Oh, Marie. Vien! Vien! ’T is 
come! ’Tis come! Oh, il est bien joli! 
II est beau! II est grand! Vien ici! 
Vien ici! ” 

And above Felicie’s shrill tone came 
Madame Sam’s voice reenforcing her 
daughter’s like a slogan: 

“ And free pots and a tea-kettle ! 
T’ree pots and a tea-kettle! Vien ici, 
[ 266 ] 


The Little Talk 

Marie! I wish you to see! T’ree pots 
and a tea-kettle! ” 

Marie went to see, crowding into the 
little kitchen already packed to bursting 
with Santerres, — eager, excited, wildly 
happy Santerres. 

The stove had come. 

‘"Voila!” cried Madame, and she 
waved the pipkin on high. “Voila!” 
and she swung the kettle above admir- 
ing eyes and heads. “Voila!” and she 
beamed above the crowd with a pot in 
either hand. ‘‘Mais, voila de stove!’’ 
and in a torrent of plastic French she 
pointed out to Marie the splendors of 
her possession. The blackness of it; the 
brightness! The lids that came off and 
on; the doors that opened and shut! 

‘‘ Mais voila de pomegranate on door!” 
and down went Madame on her knees, 
holding the little flaming lamp close to 
the iron moulding that Marie might see 
and be happy. 


[ 267 ] 


Makie of Aecady 

And it was then that Felicie’s laugh- 
ter was heard again in the air. Excited, 
nervous, but bubbling over with the 
ridiculousness of it, Felicie’s laughter 
filled the kitchen: 

‘‘Oh, mamma! Dose ain’t pome- 
granate flower. Dey is acorn! ” 

“ Acorn,” cried Madame. “ Acorn.” 
She laughed as though she would cry. 
She caught Felicie and clasped her and 
kissed her. 

“ Acorn,” she called to them all. 
“ Acorn! ” 

Ah, but yes, Madame Sam was proud. 
Marie had had her wish — had had al- 
most more than she dared to wish for. 
Felicie was proud also. Marie looked 
from glad mother to glad daughter. 
How their eyes shone ! There was not a 
Madame on Bienvieu so proud like Ma- 
dame Sam. And yet Marie’s thoughts 
could not stay with the glad scene : they 
must go back to the little moon-flower 
[ 268 ] 


The Little Talk 

leaning lonesomely under the stars. 
Poor, pretty blossom, it had neither 
father nor mother, and was all by itself 
in the night. 

Aluin, after a bit, had begun to walk 
on, with his eyes to the front yet not see- 
ing at all where he went. And so he came 
upon the Paul twins, and stood stupidly 
looking from one to the other with idle 
eyes. 

L’Un was standing up swearing his 
“ Godamit ” as hard as he could. 
L’Autre sat in the grass hugging his 
knees unhappily. Aluin, looking on idly, 
began to understand that the little chaps 
were in great trouble. 

“ Qui c’est? ” he demanded mechan- 
ically. 

‘‘ She won’t blow,” L’Un exploded. 
“ Godamit, I don’t know, me, what for 
she won’t blow! ” 

Little L’Autre took up the sad story, 
telling it over like a tolling bell: 

[269 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“We get brick; we get can; we get 
cane — ” 

“But she won’t blow! ” L’Un cut in. 
“ Godamit, she won’t blow! ” 

L’Autre went on with his dreary re- 
hearsal : 

“We make fire in brick, we put water in 
can, we make steam go t’rough cane — ” 
“But she won’t blow!” And L’Un 
would have done some more swearing if 
Aluin, at last enlightened, had not knelt 
down beside the toy sugar mill they had 
made, and begun a careful examination 
of the furnace, boiler, and steam pipe. 
The twins had made a clever job of it. 
The furnace made of brick-bats put to- 
gether with mud was provided with all 
the draught it needed; the can of water 
that represented the boiler was in ex- 
actly the right place; the cane escape 
pipe was neatly fitted in. When steam 
was raised in the boiler it should have 
gone whistling merrily out the pipe, but 
[ 270 ] 


The Little Talk 


L’Un had declared, and was still declar- 
ing, that she would not blow. Aluin, 
with the kindly patience of his father, 
and the ready wit of his mother, set him- 
self to find out why the whistle would 
not whistle. 

The point at which the twins’ ingenu- 
ity had failed them was the putting in of 
the whistle’s plug. They had made it to 
blow in from the top instead of to blow 
up from the bottom. 

Aluin, having found the error, went 
to work to right it, saying kindly: 

“ Engine don’t blow whistle same like 
you blow it — comme-^a? Engine blow 
whistle up, you blow down.” 

He cut another cane and another plug, 
making the groove with care and fitting 
the parts together with great nicety. 
While he worked the twins hung over 
him, all eyes and interest. But though 
L’Autre’s eyes, round and childlike, were 
on Aluin’s strong, deft hands, L’Un’s 
[ 271 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


eyes, alert and shrewd, were on Aluin’s 
face, watching the set of it, the jaws that 
gripped, the brows that drew, watching 
with a wonder that quickened to compre- 
hension until it broke in a glow of un- 
questioning admiration. When Aluin 
rose from his knees by the side of the 
shrilly whistling sugar mill he found 
L’Un’s little black paw gravely offered 
for his grasp. 

“ All time,” L’Un explained, ‘‘ when 
I meet man I wish to shake hands wit’ 
him. If I could be man like you, 
Godamit ! ” 

The remark brought little L’Autre to 
a sharp remembrance of his manners. 
He tore his absorbed and delighted gaze 
from the whistling pipe and scrambled 
to his feet. 

“ T’ank you, Aluin,” he said politely. 
“ She blow fine, now.” Then he dropped 
down on his knees again to watch and to 
admire. 


[272 ] 


The Little Talk 

L’Un looked into Aluin’s eyes and 
shrugged a shoulder toward the uncon- 
scious blond head: 

“ He ’s little chap,” he explained 
kindly. “ Mais he will be man some 
day.” 

Aluin held the little black hand hard 
for a minute, then dropped it and 
began to walk away again — seeing 
nothing. He had never had a little 
brother ; he thought of that as he marched 
on steadily. 

The result of that hand clasp was to 
throw L’Un into a fit of indignation, 
wild, unreasoning, vengeful. 

“ I will have her hang for das,” he said 
in a hot whisper. “ I will have her 
hang! ” 

L’ Autre, absorbed in the joy of the 
sugar mill, heard only the shrill whistle 
that rang merrily on the evening air. 
He knew nothing of the resolutions 
L’Un was making, standing above him 
18 [ 273 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

there, with his hands clenched and his 
eyes blazing. 

“ Godamit, I will have her hang! ” 

And yet how could he hang Marie 
Micou? L’Un looked at his little 
brother’s bent head. There was no help 
to be had there. L’ Autre was only a 
little chap. He would probably cry if 
L’Un should call upon him to help with 
a hanging, even though it be the hanging 
of a girl who had hurt their sturdy cham- 
pion. No, L’ Autre could not help, but: 

‘‘ I will have her hang for das,” L’Un 
repeated. “ Ha, she t’ink she can treat 
my friend like dog and live? Ha, me, I 
will show her how she can do das.” 

But Herbert would not help him either. 
Herbert had, and L’Un knew it, queer 
notions about girls, that they must never 
be hurt by boys, no matter what they did. 
L’Un didn’t believe it. Girls, he be- 
lieved, needed to be beaten sometimes; 
also, that there were times when they 
[ 274 ] 


The Little Talk 

needed to be hung. And how could he, 
unaided, hang Marie Micou. 

“ Oh, Godamit, why I did n’t t’ink 
like das first time?” he cried. L’ Autre 
looked up at the excited utterance, but 
L’Un had for his enlightening only a 
brief command: 

“ Arret, I run t’rough woods to see M. 
Moise. I be back before ’t is dark.” 

As he dived into the bushes L’Un re- 
membered something and shouted over 
his shoulder: 

“Et, L’ Autre! Keep heap water in 
das can. She will bust if she go dry.” 

Then he put out for the Moise front 
gallery. 


[275 ] 


CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

THE BITTER WORD 

When L’Un reached the Moise front 
gallery, M. Moise was sitting there alone. 
Madame was still in the kitchen putting 
things in order after supper. Monsieur 
returned L’Un’s greeting, invited him 
in, and turning, called through the house 
to his Madame: 

“ Bebe, L’Un ici.” He supposed that 
the boy had been sent by his mother to 
borrow something, or to return something 
borrowed before. 

L’Un corrected him promptly: 

‘‘ Non, Monsieur. What I wish 
to say, ’tis for man; ’tis not for 
woman.” 

Madame Moise, however, was already 
on the gallery asking alertly: 

[ 276 ] 


The Bitter Word 


“ What ’t is you wish, maybe, L’Un? 
Ha?’’ 

L’Un stood up straight and told it: 

“ I wish to hang Marie Micou,” he 
said. ‘‘ I wish das M. Moise help me 
hang her. Me, I can’t hang her wit’out 
help. And she should be hang’.” 

‘‘ Ma foi! ” Madame uttered. “ You 
crazy, maybe, ha, L’Un?” 

‘‘ Mais non, I ain’t crazy. Ha, das 
Marie she t’ink she can treat my friend 
like dog; but, me, I will show her how 
fine she can do like das. And you. Mon- 
sieur,” he appealed, ‘‘ you will help me, 
s’il vous plait? ” 

Monsieur said ‘‘ Sho, sho,” not knowing 
that he said it. It seemed to him that 
every voice that spoke to him now, cried 
the name that hurt and baffled him. 
L’Un’s delighted leap roused him; 
L’Un’s shout of triumph made him re- 
member. Where L’Un Paul was, there 
might be no dreaming. 

[ 277 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

“ I wish to know, L’Un, for why ’t is 
you will hang Marie Micou? ” the big 
Monsieur asked slowly. 

“ She treat my friend like dog. I 
reckon, maybe, she t’ink my friend 
ain’t got man to stand by him, but me, 
I will show her he has man to stand by 
him.” 

Madame Moise put in a quick word: 

“ I wish to know what friend das is she 
have treat so bad, maybe? ” 

L’Un’s communication was, he felt, not 
for woman’s ears, but since Madame 
pressed it, then she must hear. He 
turned upon her sharply : 

“ ’T is Aluin. Godamit, she have said 
"non’ to him!” 

"‘Oh, mais non!” Madame cried 
incredulously. 

L’Un shrugged an indulgent shoulder. 
He had not expected a Madame to under- 
stand the situation. 

Monsieur looked at the boy intently. 

[ 278 ] 


The Bitter Word 


“ L’Un,” he said slowly, “ you know 
das, maybe? ” 

Mais oui. Monsieur. I know das. 
Ha, you t’ink I would lie to you? ” 

M. Moise said “ Sho, sho,” and began 
to consider it; but Madame flew in 
wildly : 

“ Marie have say ‘ non ’ to Aluin! Oh, 
L’Un, das can’t be so. I wish to know 
for why you t’ink t’ing like das. You 
ain’t hear her say das? ” 

“ Non, Madame,” L’Un admitted pa- 
tiently. “ I ain’t hear her say ‘ non.’ ” 

“ Aluin ain’t tell you, I know das, me,” 
Madame declared. 

L’Un looked at her hopelessly, then he 
turned to Monsieur: 

“ Yes,” he said, “ he have tell me. Not 
wit’ his mouth, non. Godamit! when 
you see dog go limp on leg, you don’t 
wait till das dog tell you wit’ mouth das 
he is hurt in his leg, maybe? ” 

“ Sho, sho,” said Monsieur. “ When 
[ 279 ] 


Marie o‘f Aecady 


you see dog limp, den you know dog 
have hurt his leg. Yes, sir, I reckon, me, 
das is right. Right, sho! ’’ 

‘‘ Mais, cher — ” Madame began. 

L’Un put aside her womanish views 
with a gesture, and asked: 

‘‘ And you will help me, like you say. 
Monsieur? You will help me hang das 
Marie Micou? ” 

M. Moise shook his head: 

“ Mais non, L’Un. I reckon, me, we 
can’t do like das. ’T is for girl to say 
‘ non ’ if she wish.” 

L’Un corrected him quickly: 

“ ’T is for girl to say ‘ non ’ if she 
wish, oh, mais oui! But ’t is not for girl 
to say ‘ non ’ to Aduin. Godamit, a girl 
would be fool to do like das. Das Marie 
Micou ’s got no head. She should hang 
for das.” 

“ Mais non, L’Un, she should not 
hang. No, sir, even if she say ‘ non ’ to 
AJuin. I know, me, Aluin is your 
[ 280 ] 


The Bitter Word 


friend,” M. Moise continued kindly, 
“ and I know how ’t is it make you mad 
to see your friend treat’ so rough like 
das. Mais, ’t is not for you, and ’t is 
not for me, to hang Marie.” 

“Den for who ’tis?” L’Un de- 
manded. 

“Das is what I don’t know,” Mon- 
sieur told him, and there was nothing in 
his steady tone to tell of the doubt like 
agony that lay behind. “ Mais ’t is for 
girl to say ‘ non ’ if she wish. And if girl 
say ‘ non ’ to man, man must take das. I 
reckon, me, Aluin is man enough to take 
‘ non,’ if girl say das to him.” 

“ Mais oui, he is man enough,” L’Un 
cried indignantly. “ Godamit, dere ain’t 
man on Bayou so fine like Aluin is ! ” 

“ Mais oui,” Monsieur said gently. 
“ ’T is das how I t’ink aussi.” 

“ And das Marie Micou, we can’t do 
not’ing to her for das, no? ” 

“No,” Monsieur said kindly. “We 
[ 281 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

can’t do not’ing, L’Un. ’T is not even 
word we can say to her.” 

L’Un stood on the steps and looked 
away soberly into the deepening shadows. 
For a minute it would seem he almost 
doubted the wisdom of the big Monsieur, 
but in the end he accepted the verdict 
with a shrug of his lean shoulders: 

‘‘ Eh bien, Monsieur. ’T is for you to 
know. ’T is for you to say. Me, I must 
go. I leave L’Autre in branch by himself 
and ’t will be getting dark in dere, and 
he is scared for dark.” He bowed to 
Monsieur and Madame and went 
down the steps, then turned to explain 
loyally: 

“ L’Autre, he is only little chap now, 
but he is going be man some day.” 

“ Sho,” Monsieur agreed. ‘‘ He ’s go- 
ing be man, yes, sir.” 

“ Oh, cher! ” Madame appealed softly, 
‘‘ das can’t be so.” It was not L’Autre’s 
latent possibilities that she doubted, as 
[282 ] 


The Bitter Word 


M. Moise well knew. He turned sor- 
rowfully. 

‘‘ I reckon ’t is so, Bebe,” he said and 
his big voice broke pityingly. 

“Mon Dieu! ’tis going be hard for 
Aluin.” 

“ Oh, cher,” Madame whispered, “ I 
don’t know why Marie should say ‘ non ’ 
to him, I didn’t t’ink dere was girl in 
world would say ‘ non ’ to fem.” 

Monsieur sat forward in his chair, 
silent, his head bent over his big hands. 

“ Bebe,” he said at last, “ I believe 
he love das little stranger girl same 
like I love you — when you was laugh 
at me so much. If you had said ‘ non ’ 
to me! Mon Dieu! I don’t believe, me, 
I could have stood for you to do like 
das.” 

“ Mais, cher,” Madame soothed 
eagerly, “ I never fought to say ‘ non ’ to 
you. I would have been crazy, cher, to 
have said fing like das.” 

[ 283 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


M. Moise lifted his head and looked 
at her: 

“ Bebe,” he said, dere ain’t woman 
in world so fine like you.” Then his heart 
went back to his boy, and his head bent 
again : 

‘‘I am sorry for Aluin. Mon Dieu! 
’tis going be tough for him. Tough, 
sho!” 

“ Cher,” Madame whispered, ‘‘ voila 
Aluin.” 

M. Moise sat up instantly, tipped his 
chair back against the wall and began to 
roll a cigarette. 

‘‘ Eh bien, Aluin,” he greeted cheer- 
fully. ‘‘ You don’t find dose steer, 
maybe? ” 

“ Non, papa,” Aluin answered, and sat 
down on the bottom steps as though 
he were tired. ‘‘ I don’t find dose steer. 
I go all up Bayou but I don’t find steers. 
Don’t find steers ’t all.” 

“ I reckon,” M. Moise suggested 
[ 284 ] 


The Bitter Word 

steadily, “ dey go down Bayou, dose 
steer. ’T is way dey do. Mon Dieu! 
I have hunt’ steer for fifty years and ’t is 
way dey do. If you go up Bayou to hunt 
steer, den steers dey go down Bayou; 
if you go down, den dey go up. Yes, 
sir. Das is right. Dey go up, sho.” 

Monsieur had done his best and Ma- 
dame realized it. She came to the rescue, 
asking brightly: 

“And you hungry from your walk, 
ha, Aluin? Your supper, voila ’tis on 
table.” 

Aluin spoke without turning: 

“ Merci, mamma. I get some supper 
pretty soon.” 

“ Bien, when you have rest’ some,” 
Madame agreed readily. She waited for 
Monsieur to take up the talk, but Mon- 
sieur was biting on his cigarette and look- 
ing at his boy’s shoulders, so broad, yet 
so carelessly dropped together. If there 
was any talking to be done, Madame 
[285 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Moise must do it, and, seeing that, she 
took up the task as bravely as may be 
and said again brightly: 

“ Have you hear, Aluin, das Madame 
Sam get her stove to-day? Mais oui! I 
see M. Santerre pass up road wit’ stove 
in wagon. Oh, I reckon, me, Sara is 
proud to-night. ’T is t’irty years she 
have been wish for das stove and now she 
have it! Ma foi, I wish to know what 
will be next t’ing to happen on Bayou.” 

And Aluin, because it was breaking 
the boy heart of him, told her what would 
be the next thing to happen. Told her 
steadily enough but a bit wearily, too. 

“ I reckon, mamma,” he said, “ de next 
ti’ng das happen, ’t will be Marie Micou 
make marry wit’ Valere Dupre.” 

Monsieur dropped the front legs of 
his chair to the floor. Madame’s aston- 
ishment escaped her in a scream: 

“Make marry wit’ Valere Dupre! 
Oh, Aluin, das can^t be so ! ” 

[ 286 ] 


The Bitter Word 


“ ’T is how she tell me,” Aluin said. 

“Mon Dieu!” Monsieur said slowly. 

Madame said again, frantically: 

“Das can't be so! Marie would be 
crazy to do t’ing like das. Oh, Aluin, 
das can't be so! ” 

Aluin stood up: 

“ ’T is das how she tell me,” he re- 
peated. He stood looking away from 
them, big, boyish, heart-broken, but 
carrying his trouble without stumbling, 
as a man should. 

Monsieur’s hand opened and closed 
on Madame’s, and Madame fought back 
the sobs, and silenced the words that were 
yearning to wail over her boy as though 
he had been but a baby. 

“ Your supper is on table, Aluin,” she 
said, and her tone tried to tell all that her 
tongue might not put in words. “ Your 
supper is on table, cher,” 

“ Merci, mamma,” Aluin said, and 
walked away, around the house. 

[ 287 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


‘‘I can’t t’ink, cher,” Madame said 
helplessly to Monsieur when she was sure 
they were alone. “ I can’t t’ink! ” 

“ And me eit’er, Bebe,” M. Moise told 
her solemnly. “ Valere will have nice 
place dere. When his papa die ’twill 
be all for him — ” 

“ Oh, cher, I don’t believe dere is any 
girl in world would marry him for place 
he will have. I don’t believe Marie 
Micou will do das I ” 

“If,” Monsieur said deliberately, — 
“ if I knew for why she wash her hands 
so much.” 

“ Cher,” Madame said earnestly, “ me, 
I ain’t said word to Marie. Not un mot 
seul.” She waited. Monsieur said noth- 
ing. “ And you, cher? ” 

“ Non,” Monsieur answered. “ And 
me, eit’er. I ain’t said word to her.” 

There seemed to be no other solution. 
If the present could not account for 
Marie Micou’s inexplicable conduct — 
[288 ] 


The Bitter Word 


then the past must. But their boy ; their 
Aluin! That a fool should be preferred 
before him! How could they bear it? 

And even while they questioned 
mutely, while father love and mother 
love beat through all their being, and 
every beat a throb of yearning, Mon- 
sieur and his Madame must put their 
pain aside, and rise and give courteous 
greeting to the friend who came so ruth- 
lessly upon their sorrow. For M. Reneau 
had left his pony at the gate and was 
striding up the walk. Not that M. 
Reneau was in any mood to sympathize 
now with the heartache of a comrade. 
M. Reneau was mad! 


19 


[ 289 ] 


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

THE DAY OF DISCOVERY 

“ Bon soir, Madame ! Damne, Moise, 
maybe we ain’t been fool, ha?” M. 
Reneau caught Madame’s right hand 
and bowed over it in a whirl, then he 
flung himself down in a chair on the 
other side of the big Monsieur and let fly 
another ‘‘Damne!” that went through 
the air like a saw through wood. “We 
ain’t been fool, no!” 

“ Sho, sho,” said M. Moise. 

“ But yes, ’t is sho,” Reneau cried 
hotly. “You know das Camusette? 
Das dago? Damne, he ain’t buy das 
place, no! He just come squat!” 

“Come squat!” M. Moise repeated, 
yet he did not seem to be surprised. 

“ Mais oui, he come squat. He ain’t 
buy das land. And you and me, we go 
[ 290 ] 


The Day of Discovery 

make fence — free hundred feet of 
fence for him! Mais oui, he squat! Das 
lawyer from Black Bayou! Das Mister 
Letter — ” 

“ He is agent for das American,” M. 
Moise put in deliberately. It was a re- 
mark he never failed to make whenever 
Letter’s name was mentioned. M. 
Reneau recognized the remark now with 
an impatient: 

“My God, Moise!” and rushed on 
with his story: 

“ Every time he come to Bienvieu, das 
lawyer, he ask me for why I don’t buy 
das place he is agent for. And to-day 
aussi, I come up on gallery — down to 
store — and voila, he was dere, talk wit’ 
Bat, and he say to me again: ‘ Ha, M. 
Reneau, for why you don’t buy das little 
piece of land by your place? ’ And me, 
I laugh. I say: ‘ Eh, bien, Mister Let- 
ter, you beat me bad dis time. Beat me 
bad, sho.’ Well, he turn round from 
[ 291 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

where he was talk’ wit’ Bat, he look, he 
say: ‘ Mais non, I ain’t been beat’ you, 
M. Reneau.’ And he say: ‘I wish to 
know how ’t is I been beat’ you, maybe? ’ 
And me, I laugh some more and I say: 
‘ Oh, mais non, you ain’t beat me ! 
Maybe ’tis you ain’t been sell’ das nice 
little piece of land to not’er man.’ And 
he look, look me sharp, yes. ‘ Not’er 
man, not’ing,’ he say. ‘ ’T is to you 
I ’m going sell das piece of land.’ And 
me, I say : ‘ Eh, bien, ’t is not’er man 
have das land now. If ’t is not you das 
sell it him, den, me, I don’t know who 
’tis.’ He look sharp some more, and 
he say sharp : ‘ And, me, I don’t know 
who ’t is neit’er.’ And he say: ‘ I wish 
to know who das man is das buy land, 
maybe?’ Well, me, I tell him man’s 
name is Clausel Camusette. And I tell 
him ’tis about two mont’s he has been 
live yonder. And das lawyer, he look 
me some more; he look Bat, and he say 
[ 292 ] 


The Day of Discovery 


slow like : ‘ Well, I ’ll be damned 1 ’ Den 
he ask me if I can give him ride over 
yonder, and I tell him oui — certainly, 
I tell him ouil Mister Lotter get in 
wagon wit’ me. We drive. We come to 
place. Voila Camusette sit’ on log in 
front of house ! Mister Lotter, he holler : 
‘Hello!’ And he say, ‘Who live here 
now?’ Camusette don’t say not’ing. 
We get out wagon. We go in. Me, I 
introduce ” — and M. Reneau waved his 
hand to show how he did it — “ lawyer to 
Camusette. And den lawyer begin to 
talk. My God, Moise! Das man can 
talk. He don’t talk so much, no; but 
dose word he say, dey go t’rough t’ing 
like sharp axe. Camusette he won’t say 
not’ing. Just sit look yonder like he 
ain’t got ears. So lawyer pull paper on 
him. Tell him look, ’t is power ’torney. 
Pardieu ! when Camusette see das power 
’torney he find his tongue, yes. He say 
non, he ain’t buy das place. Say he 
[ 293 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


ain’t never tell nobody he buy place. 
Say he don’t have not’ing to do wit’ das 
fence. Say ’tis some men come and 
build fence. Say he just come camp dere 
while — he ’s going move on in two t’ree 
days. So lawyer he say all right, and he 
tell him sharp like he will be back again 
in t’ree days to see if he have moved. 
And den we drive back to store. Ha, 
maybe you t’ink das lawyer don’t get 
gay wit’ me. He slap his leg. He laugh. 
He ask me what for I was in so much 
hurry to make fence for man das just 
come squat. And he say : ‘ Ha, Mister 
Reneau, you let das little dago run away 
wit’ you.’ And he ask me how many 
rails I split for das fence maybe. And 
he say : ‘ I bet my head Mister Moise 
split rails too.’ And he laugh till he 
choke. Pardieu, he make me mad, 
Moise! ’Tis fifty years since you and 
me play fool so much like das.” 

‘‘ Sho, sho,” said M. Moise, deliber- 
[294 ] 


The Day of Discovery 


ately. “Well, I reckon, Victor, if we 
have play fool, we have play fool, 
maybe.” 

Reneau could not gainsay it, and the 
two Messieurs sat soberly and looked at 
the bake-oven in the lane. Not because 
there was anything of interest in the bake- 
oven. It was just such a burnt clay 
structure as stood in all the lanes, a great 
shelf of turtle-like shape, turned down 
on a platform that stood four feet from 
the ground. The mouth of the oven was 
toward the house but the dark hole of its 
opening could not be distinguished now 
in the gloom. What could be distin- 
guished was the pile of bake-oven woods, 
finely split and neatly stacked, all ready 
for the next baking day. And when Mon- 
sieur’s eyes had taken in consciousness 
of the wood he moved with a twist of 
pain, remembering Aluin, who had split 
and stacked it there. He spoke again 
almost restlessly: 

[295 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ I wish to know what lawyer is doing 
on Bayou, maybe? ” 

“ He come for fix paper for Auguste 
Dupre/’ Reneau’s answer was curt, for 
his anger still held him. “ ’T is how he 
tell me. Dupre is sick and wish to have 
paper fix for him.” 

“ Dupre is sick? ” M. Moise repeated 
with concern. ‘‘ I ain’t hear he was sick.” 

M. Reneau shrugged his shoulder: 

“ Me eit’er. I see him yesterday. He 
was look all right — right as he can look. 
When you see a man wit’ pretty face like 
girl — ” M. Reneau shrugged again. 

“ Sho, sho,” M. Moise said, and con- 
sidered it. 

“ Dupre is young,” he said at length. 
“Young for have paper fix. I don’t 
believe, me, he make his t’irty-six year 
yet.” 

“ No, he ain’t make it,” M. Reneau 
told him briefly. “ Mais you know how 
’t is wit’ dose Dupres, ’live to-day, dead 
[ 296 ] 


The Day of Discovery 

to-morrow. I reckon ’tis das why he 
wish to have paper fix. Dey die young, 
dose Dupre.” 

“ I wish to know if Dupre is much 
sick,” M. Moise said kindly. 

“ My Madame go dere wit’ me when 
I tell her what lawyer say. She say 
maybe he want some bread cook — some 
gumbo, maybe. She ’s kind, Amelia is. 
But das Dupre, he don’t let her do not’- 
ing. Say ‘ Merci,’ and ‘ Merci ’ ; and 
say Valere do for him so fine. He ain’t 
got much sense, Dupre ain’t. When you 
see man wit’ pretty face like girl — ” 
The magnate roused sharply from his 
passionate preoccupation : 

“Moise! If Dupre should die, you 
reckon das Valere going know how to 
take care of what he leave him, ha? Das 
Valere! he ain’t got no head! ” 

M. Moise did not even say “ sho.” He 
had not heard the poignant question. At 
the mention of Valere’s name his heart 
[ 297 ] 


Makie of Arcady 


and thought had gone all to his baffled 
boy. He said nothing; but Madame, 
his wife, had Reneau blood in her — 
proud blood! — and she said briskly: 

“Eh bien, M. Reneau! Maybe ’tis 
Valere will make marry wit’ girl das have 
head and — ” 

“ Mais, Madame! ” the magnate in- 
terrupted, and then added in courteous 
excuse of his abruptness : 

“ I don’t reckon, Madame, dere is girl 
in world would make marry wit’ boy like 
Valere. Ha, Moise? ” 

“ If,” Monsieur told him with deliber- 
ation, — “ if girl should wish for home, 
Valere will have right nice place — ” 

But the magnate broke in with deci- 
sion; 

“ My God, no! ” 

Monsieur said “ sho, sho,” and looked 
away into the dusk to consider it, and 
to consider that “ Why to Reneau’s 
house? ” But he made slow work of it. 

[ 298 ] 


The Day of Discovery 

The magnate had long sinee made his 
bon soirs, when M. Moise asked thought- 
fully: 

“ Bebe, what name ’t is das banana 
man have? ” 

“Das run wit’ M. Reneau’s little sis- 
ter, cher? ’T was Pavoli — Tomaso 
Pavoli.” 

Monsieur sighed: “Eh bien!” Then 
he added as though for once he spoke 
without reason: 

“ I ’m sorry for Reneau.” 


[ 299 ] 


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

THE MESSAGE TO M. MOISE 

The time had come for Auguste Dupre 
to die, and Auguste Dupre knew it. In 
the middle of the big white bed Valere 
had spread for him with such care, Dupre 
lay and watched his boy wobble about 
the house, all eagerness to do for his sick 
papa. Not that Dupre looked ill. The 
prettiness that the magnate had men- 
tioned with such bitter disdain was all 
there untouched, unfaded. The delicate 
color blushed through the sunburn of 
his cheek with even a deeper hue, the 
red lips were as red, the fine black hair 
as softly curled as ever. But Dupre 
was dying, and he knew it. From under 
their long lashes his beautiful eyes fol- 
lowed Valere wistfully as he worked, — 
[ 300 ] 


The Message to M. Moise 

now industriously wiping a footprint 
from the spotless floor; now stooping 
to peer into the pot where the tea was 
brewing; now mending the Are with a 
careful hand, — so busy was Valere, 
struggling with his wretched leg, smil- 
ing, eager to do. Dupre felt the paper 
the lawyer had fixed for him. It was 
all safe under his pillow. In that paper 
Valere was made heir to cattle, sheep, 
and swine; to farm and timber land. 
But it was stipulated that he should 
turn over to M. Moise every year two 
cows, two lambs, and two pigs to pay 
him for helping him take care of his 
possessions. Also, two acres of the 
farm were to be cultivated for the profit 
of M. Moise. 

Yes, it was all fixed in the paper. 
But one thing the paper had not been 
able to cover, and it was of this M. 
Dupre thought as he watched his busy 
boy. He would die pretty soon. Die 
[ 301 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

as all the Dupres had died since the 
grandfathers began to be second cousin 
to the grandsons — the blood running 
thinner, the heads growing smaller, and 
the hearts getting weaker as the gener- 
ations passed. Son after father the Du- 
pres had died, with hearts hammering 
them like mad one minute, to be still as 
a stone the next. He, Auguste Dupre, 
was going to die that way also — pretty 
soon. He knew it as dogs know when 
they creep away from their kind to be 
alone with their last agony. And what 
would Valere do? 

Eh bien, that was the trouble that made 
M. Dupre follow with wistful eyes every 
uncouth motion and eager effort. What 
would Valere do when he came to his 
father and found that father still and 
silent, and not to be roused by plead- 
ings? — Valere, who knew nothing of 
death, — had never seen either dead or 
dying! He would be frightened, terri- 
[ 302 ] 


The Message to M. Moise 

bly frightened, — and the scare might 
kill him, with his weak heart and his 
weaker head. 

M. Dupre, dying, and a little glad 
to be rid of his own blighted life, yet 
stopped on the eve of his release to take 
all thought that might guard his son 
from a like escape. M. Dupre loved his 
boy. 

And so, watching with loving looks 
from under his long lashes, thinking, 
pondering, M. Dupre at last knew what 
he must do, and called to the busy 
Valere: 

“ Mon fils? ” 

“ Me void, papa,” Valere answered. 

“ Vien,” the father commanded. 

Valere came at once and as quickly 
as he could, and stood looking down 
upon the pretty papa he so idolized. 

“ I t’ink, me, I ’m going go to sleep, 
Valere,” M. Dupre told him gently. 
“ T’ink I am going go to sleep tight, 
[ 303 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

so tight you can’t make me wake up. 
I don’t wish das you wake me up.” 

“ Mais non, papa,” Valere agreed 
readily. 

“ I don’t wish das you be scared. I 
wish das you take your hat and go up 
Bayou to M. Moise and tell him how 
’tis your papa have gone to sleep so 
tight he won’t wake up. I know, me, 
you can tell dose words to M. Moise. 
I know dere ain’t boy on Bayou can 
go to M. Moise and tell him das so 
fine like you can, ha, mon fils?” 

“ Mais oui, papa,” Valere cried in 
glee. “When you go to sleep — tight 
— me, I will go to M. Moise and tell 
him you sleep tight.” And in his eager- 
ness to prove how finely he could do all 
this, Valere would have hurried matters 
a bit. He asked eagerly: 

“ ’T is now you going go to sleep all 
tight, papa? ” 

“ Pretty soon, I go, gar9on.” 

[ 304 ] 


The Message to M. Moise 

Valere sat down on the side of the bed 
and watched patiently for those beauti- 
ful eyes to close in a sleep all tight and 
lasting, but the eyes stayed open. 

The room grew darker as the sun 
dropped over to the other side of the 
house, but even then, though he could 
not be sure because of the blackness of 
their lashes, whether the eyes were open 
or not, even then Valere knew that his 
papa was not asleep, because M. Dupre 
was lying stretched straight out in the 
bed. A man could not sleep all straight, 
V alere knew that, because when he, 
Valere, slept, it was on his side, with 
his hands cuddled between his knees. 
But, yes; Valere slept as all men had 
slept in the beginning, as some monkeys 
sleep now. 

The sun dropped lower and lower 
down the western side until it found a 
knot-hole in the wall of the house and 
sent a long, red beam to light up the 
20 [ 305 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

hair of the dying man. The fine black 
curls shone like silk in the glow, and the 
sight of it made Valere remember. 

“ Papa? ” he questioned quickly. 

“ Mon fils.’’ 

“ ’T is yesterday Marie Micou let me 
pet hair wit’ her. ’T was all soft, papa, 
soft like sheep.” 

M. Dupre rose sharply to his elbow: 

“ Marie Micou! ” 

“ Mais, oui,” Valere chuckled, pleased 
to have surprised his father. 

M. Dupre did not look pleased — he 
looked aghast. 

‘‘ Marie Micou,” he repeated, then he 
asked: 

“ How come she let you pet hair wit’ 
her. She is for Aluin Moise.” 

“ For Aluin,” Valere scoffed. ‘‘ Dog- 
gone, you do just like one fool! Marie 
Micou is for me.” 

‘‘ For you ! Oh, mon fils ! Mon fils ! ” 
M. Dupre sank back from his elbow. 

[ 306 ] 


The Message to M. Moise 

“ Mais oui, she is for me — all time,” 
Valere told in triumph. 

M. Dupre did not answer. His breath 
broke harshly; his head jerked back- 
ward; then he writhed over on his side, 
and his clenched hands went down to 
be caught between his knees. 

Valere stood up. But, yes. His papa 
was asleep now, all tight. He bent over 
to make sure of it, and it was for him, 
Valere, to show how fine he could go 
and tell M. Moise. 

Valere got his hat just as his papa 
had told him to do, and pulled it down 
hard over his ears to keep the message 
from getting away. Then he shut the 
house door carefully, as his father had 
taught him also to do, and struggled 
down the steps and out into the sun- 
shine. 

It was five o’clock in the afternoon. 
The sun was well up above the pine 
trees, but every now and then there ran 
[ 307 ] 


Mae IE OF Aecady 

through the air swift, cool ripples that 
made one think of night hawks and stars. 
Valere knew what that meant; it was 
getting late and he must hurry, hurry, 
to carry his message to M. Moise. He 
smiled proudly as he struggled on. It 
was fine to feel that he was doing some- 
thing better than any boy on the Bayou 
could do it, and Valere flung out his 
arms and twisted his mouth in the effort 
to carry his message better and faster. 

The Moise place was two miles or 
more from the Dupre farm. A long 
way for Valere’s legs to travel, and yet 
by six o’clock his industry and perse- 
verance and pride in his mission had 
covered nearly the whole of that weary 
way. 

Eh bien, some one else was also 
hurrying along the Bayou road that 
afternoon, — hurrying not in pride and 
eagerness, but with a heart full of half- 
crazy hopes and fears. Marie Micou had 
[ 308 ] 


The Message to M. Moise 

been sent upon another errand and was 
speeding home from the doing of it — 
traveling the public road because glades 
and thickets held memories for her now 
that she dared not face. As she hur- 
ried her eyes kept sharp lookout for 
Aluin. 

“ If I see him, me,” she panted. 

Ah, if she should see him! See the 
good, slow smile, the slow, kind glance — 
If she should ever see the big, gentle 
fellow again, could she tell him another 
time that she was going to walk with 
Valere — and face the hurt and horror 
in his eyes? 

‘‘ Oh, I pray God, me, I won’t ever 
see him again! ” And as she neared the 
!Moise place Marie grew so vigilant for 
fear of the one boy in the world, that 
she would have sped past Valere with- 
out seeing him if he had not hailed her 
in glee, crying: 

“ Voila ! My papa, he ’s gone to sleep ! 

[ 309 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


Gone tight, yes. And, me, I go for tell 
M. Moise. ’T is like my papa say. Dere 
ain’t boy on Bayou can go tell M. Moise 
so fine like me. ’T is my papa say das.” 

— He was very proud of it, poor fellow! 
Marie’s hurrying steps checked their 

hurrying, her eyes went wide and deep 
with pity. 

‘‘ And your papa,” she asked gently, 
“ he — sleeps?” 

“ Mais oui, he sleep tight.” 

‘‘How long it is he sleep like das?” 
Marie questioned fearfully. 

Valere motioned to the sun. 

“ He was yonder,” he said, and then 
he looked alarmed. “ And now he is 
dere. Me, I must hurry! You will go 
wit’ me? ” he asked wistfully. “ ’T will 
make me proud.” 

Marie was looking at him out of dim- 
ming eyes. Her own father was asleep 

— it was a long time since he had gone 
to sleep so tightly that he could not be 

[ 310 ] 


The Message to M. Moise 

wakened. Marie had stood on tiptoe by 
the bedside to peep at his fast sleep- 
ing. She could not remember when her 
mother had gone to sleep; she had been 
too little then even to peep at sleeping. 

“ Mais oui,” she said gently, ‘‘ me, I 
can go wit’ you t’rough lane. I can’t 
go to house; it is das I must hurry. 
But I can go wit’ you t’rough lane,” 
and she reflected: 

“ If I see him dere, I can jump fence 
and run t’rough fleld. Das cane is so 
high.” 

‘‘Das make me proud,” Valere de- 
clared, and he began mouthing horribly 
in an effort to walk even more proudly 
than before. 

They fared on together, — shel such 
a beautiful girl, he such a wretched 
image of a man. The pines stooped 
over them, sighing; the long-stemmed 
wild flowers bowed their yellow heads. 
Valere strained his whole being to the 
[ 311 ] 


Maeie of "Aec ady 

task of keeping his balance, throwing 
out his long arms, swaying, twisting his 
lips and fingers. Marie watched him, 
thinking of his sleeping father; of him; 
of herself; of — but no, she must not 
think of a face going white under her 
words, lying words; of a voice breaking 
in a horrified “Quoi!’’ 

“Ferme,” she said to her clamoring 
tenderness, “ He is for Felicie.’’ 

The silent, slowly moving pair reached 
the Moise lane and turned into it. On 
one side was a field of tall cane ready 
for the knife; on the other, bare, plowed 
ground, where the potatoes had been 
harvested. Through the lane the sun 
shone redly from the west. Marie’s 
shrinking, seeking eyes followed up that 
line of crimson light to the big tree 
where Monsieur’s wagon stood with the 
ox-yokes leaned against it, to the shed 
where Madame’s bake-oven was flanked 
by its stack of neatly-piled wood — 
[ 312 ] 


The Message to M. Moise 

Marie’s eyes lingered on that wood. It 
was Valere who saw farther up the lane, 
and Valere who croaked forth the ques- 
tion touching what he saw: 

“ Who das is come yonder? ” 

Marie’s eyes went forward to see. To 
see a figure broad and brave advancing 
with the swift approach of strength and 
youth? But no. What she saw was 
the figure of an old man bent under a 
bundle. For an instant she looked in 
stupid disappointment, then, with the cry 
of a cornered creature, she sprang over 
the fence and fled away into the heart of 
M. Moise’s cane field. How many times 
as she lay beside Felicie and thought of 
ugly shadows had she planned against 
this, saying, “ All time I wiU watch. If 
I see him, me, I will jump; I will run. 
He won’t have chance, no, for see me.” 

Eh bien, she had jumped, she was 
running, but the second she had taken 
to clear her eyes of visions, that second 
[ 313 ] 


Marie OF Arcady 


had given the peering eyes of Clausel 
Camusette all the time they needed. 
He dropped both bundle and stick and 
started down the lane to overtake the 
running girl. An easy thing to do, he 
thought, for a man can quickly wind a girl. 
And an easy thing it would have been had 
he not had Valere Dupre to reckon with. 

Valere had seen Marie’s terror and 
retreat; he saw Camusette’s rage and 
rush; then he saw Madame’s pile of 
neatly-stacked bake-oven wood; and 
with a howl Valere went into action. 
So did the wood. Fast as stick could 
fly after stick that wood flew to meet 
the oncoming Camusette; flew into him, 
over him, under him. A whirl of wood. 
And with the wood, mingling with it, 
magnifying it, came inarticulate cries of 
anger and uncouth grimaces of rage. 
Camusette stopped, but only for the mo- 
ment. In checking he had caught sight of 
a gate that gave on the lane. Furiously, 
[ 314 ] 


The Message to M. Moise 


he dodged through it into a yard, and 
found himself in the presence of the two 
Messieurs, who, with chairs tipped back 
against the shady side of the house, were 
calmly smoking corn-shuck cigarettes. 

M. Moise did not put out a hand to 
stop him, but he looked at Camusette 
with the surprise of a house-owner who 
finds his home rudely intruded upon, and 
Camusette came to a stand. 

“ Bon jour,” M. Moise said then, 
courteously. 

For response, Camusette burst out 
upon him with all the bitterness of a 
baffled pursuit: 

“ Sacre bleu! Why you don’t make 
fool yonder stop t’row das wood? ” 

M. Reneau looked into M. Moise’s 
eyes; then he got up and walked to the 
corner of the house where a view of the 
lane showed Valere filling the air with 
cries and grimaces and sticks of neatly 
split wood. 


[ 315 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

“Ha, Valere!” he shouted. “ C’est 
bien! Arretez! Vienici!” 

Having reduced Valere to order, the 
magnate came back to the shade of the 
house, but he did not resume his seat. 
Tremendously tall he looked as he stood 
leaning beside his solid friend, eyeing the 
man who had brought down the lawyer’s 
laughter upon their heads. 

M. Moise had sat silently through it 
all with his eyes on Camusette. Very 
kind, almost gentle, the big Monsieur 
looked as he sat there in the sweet, cool 
shade of the house he had built with his 
own young hands long years ago. Very 
kind, yes, but when Camusette made 
a quick move to continue the pursuit 
through his cane field, M. Moise said, 
“Arretez,” and Camusette waited, biting 
his lips and clenching his hands until 
Valere came swaying and gibbering to 
the edge of the shade. 


[ 316 ] 


CHAPTER NINETEEN 


THE FLIGHT 

When Valere had come to a stand, M. 
Moise turned to Camusette and said 
politely : 

“ And what ’t is wit’ you and Valere, 
maybe, M. Camusette?” 

Camusette stated his case shortly: 

“ Me,” he said, “ I wish to pass t’rough 
lane and das fool yonder t’row wood at 
me. Sacre bleu, he t’row wood like hell!” 

The big Monsieur said “ Sho, sho,” 
then his glance went kindly to the scared 
and shaken Valere. 

“ Eh bien, Valere,” he said gently, “ I 
am glad, me, you t’row wood! Mon 
Dieu ! dere ain’t boy on Bayou can t’row 
wood so fine like you. And for what 
’tis you t’row wood, maybe?” 

[ 317 ] 


Marie OF Arcady 


Valere, rallied by the hearty praise, 
stopped his senseless chatter, and pointed 
a curved forefinger at Camusette: 

“ He was run for Marie Micou/’ he 
cried. 

The Monsieur’s big head swung 
around to Camusette : 

“ And for why ’t is you wish to run 
for Marie Micou, maybe? ” 

Camusette stood for a moment as 
though he had resolved to entrench him- 
self in his wonted silence, then thought 
better of it and said sullenly: 

“ I wish to talk wit’ her.” 

“ And what ’t is you wish to say to 
her, maybe? ” Monsieur asked. 

“ ’T is for me to know.” 

M. Moise shook his head in slow 
dissent : 

“ If, M. Camusette,” he said weightily, 
‘‘if you had go to house where little 
girl live and talk wit’ her dere, den it 
would be for you to know what ’t is you 
[ 318 ] 


The Flight 


wish to say to her. But if you come 
make chase wit’ little girl in my cane, 
den ’tis for me to know what ’tis you 
wish to say to her.” 

Camusette fell back upon his grim 
brevity and said: 

“ I wish to say her bon jour. I come 
from place where she live.” 

“ Sho,” said Monsieur, “ sho.” Then 
his eyebrows went up in patient protest. 
“ Mais if she run so much seem like she 
don’t wish das you say her bon jour. 
And dere ain’t nobody going say her das 
if she don’t wish — not while she stay 
on Bayou dere ain’t.” 

Camusette came out of his grimness 
with a fling of fury: 

“ And who ’t is will say I can’t say to 
her what I wish? ” he shouted. 

A little humor came into M. Moise’s 
quiet glance as he answered: 

“ Eh bien, Monsieur. I reckon maybe 
’t is me say das.” 

[ 319 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

Camusette, like a creature at bay, 
looked at the big man before him. 

“Grand Dieu! ’T is you. Yes, ’tis 
you. You know what ’tis das girl do? 
She steal — steal boy from my girl. Dey 
was betrot’ed. Dey was happy. Das 
Marie come look, come smile. Boy go 
sit on gallery wit’ her and everybody have 
laugh — but my girl don’t sit still for 
laugh, no! she take gun and wait by 
bushes till boy come, den she shoot — 
Ha! ^tis right she should shoot. Mais 
oui, and if das boy die, den maybe ’t is 
she shall hang for das, — ’t is not my girl 
shall hang, — ’t is not her shall hang ! I 
go to aunt and say, ‘ Das Marie you got 
in house — she steal — she is meurtriere.’ 
Madame cry, ‘Oh, mais non! Marie 
is nice little t’ing — she will not do so 
bad like das ! ’ I tell her, ‘ Oui, she will 
do,’ — den she say, ‘ Voila, she ain’t in 
house wit’ me,’ and I say to sheriff, me, 
‘ For why you don’t hang das girl das 
[ 320 ] 


The Flight 


steal boy from my girl? If she ain’t 
steal — my girl ain’t shoot! ’ He laugh 
— laugh like fool. So, me, I make swear 
’t is me will catch das Marie, — ’t is me 
will — ” 

For once M. Moise interrupted a man 
in his speech. He brought his chair down 
on four legs and said slowly, ‘‘ Mais non. 
Monsieur,” and then without pausing to 
consider, he added: 

“Steal boy! Das ain’t not’ing — 
Dere ain’t law for hang girl for steal 
boy. 'Noy sir, if girl have boy, and 
’not’er girl wish to steal boy, girl should 
keep boy if she can. If she can’t keep 
’not’er girl from steal, she can’t do 
not’ing — and she can’t say not’ing. 
Das is law!” 

Camusette turned savagely: “Not’- 
ing! Ain’t not’ing — to steal boy from 
my girl? I will show her, me.” 

“ Das boy, he ain’t dead, no? ” queried 
M. Moise, courteously. 

21 [ 321 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


“ How you know he ain’t dead, ha? 
Ain’t my girl shoot him? — ain’t he fall 
in the road? And das Marie, she come 
— come from long way — and lift him 
up — and her hands dey was red — red, 
yes, wit’ de blood dat runs. Grand 
Dieu! I tell her, me, das on her hands 
das blood is ! I say to her, ‘ You is meur- 
triere — you — you — and you shall hang 
for das!’ And you say he ain’t dead, 
ha?” 

M. Moise was himself again, deliber- 
ate, gentle; he made his reasoning plain 
to the raging dago. “ If das boy was 
dead, M. Camusette, and it was Marie 
das shoot, yes, das governor you have 
yonder would send man to fetch Marie. 
If man shoot man in one state and den 
run to ’not’er state, sheriff can’t do 
not’ing to him till governor get paper 
for him to do. And if das man he shoot 
don’t die, governor can’t get paper. Yes, 
sir, das is law. And de people in state 
[322 ] 


The Flight 


where he run can’t do not’ing to him 
till dey have paper. As law is for man, 
so ’tis for girl. And you — you ain’t 
got paper, Monsieur, and you can’t do 
not’ing to little girl das run when she 
see you. No, sir, you can’t do not’ing 
— das is law!” 

‘‘Das is law! Sacre bleu! you t’ink 
you goin’ to make fool of me some more, 
ha!” 

“ Excusez-moi, M. Camusette,” re- 
plied Monsieur placidly. “ I ain’t never 
make fool of you.” 

“Oh, mais non, you ain’t make fool! 
’T is not you das tell me dere ain’t no- 
body come run to Victor Reneau’s 
house? ” 

M. Moise explained gently: 

“ Mais oui, Monsieur, when you ask 
me if anybody have come run to Re- 
neau’s house, I tell you ‘non.’ Mais, 
you ain’t never ask me if somebody have 
come run to Bayou.” 

[ 323 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


‘‘ Cher,” uttered a voice from within 
the house. It was Madame Moise. At 
that deliberate distinction there had 
flashed before her a vision of the past 
unhappy month, and in it she had seen 
her big Monsieur sitting sorrowfully 
but solidly between the homeless little 
stranger and this ugly old man with the 
mean eyes. 

M. Moise heard the exclamation, 
but M. Reneau did not. He had 
turned upon Camusette with a harsh 
question; 

“ And for why she should come run to 
my house — das Marie Micou? ” 

The dago flung both hands above his 
head and shook them — the Angers vi- 
brant with his fury: 

“ Oh, Grand Dieu! Micou! Das girl 
ain’t no Micou. ’T is Marie Reneau 
Pavoli she is and she is t’ief — meur- 
triere — ” 

The magnate sprang erect, his power- 
[ 324 ] 


The Flight 


ful fist clenching as his arm swung into 
line. 

But M. Moise also rose. 

“ Reste tranquille, Victor,” he said, and 
to the dago: 

“ No, M. Camusette, I ain’t never tell 
you lie. Mais, Monsieur, I wish to say to 
you, me^ ’t is not for man to come sneak 
on girl’s track. ’T is for dog to do das.” 

It was a direct challenge, directly 
given, but before the dago could make 
reply to it — if he dared reply — Valere, 
terrified and alone at the corner of the 
house, caught sight of comfort and hailed 
it hysterically: 

“ Aluin, Aluin! Doggone you do just 
like one fool. For why you don’t run? 
Marie Micou run. She see man yonder, 
she jump fence, she run, — she run! 
Me, I ain’t got some legs. I can’t run. 
For why you don’t run? For why you 
stand dere look, look? Doggone, you do 
just like one fool!” 

[325 ] 


Maeie of Arcady 


Aluin walked up to the dago and 
said; 

“ What ’t is you been do to Marie 
Micou? ” 

“ Micou, Grand Dieu! ’T is what she 
have been do to me. She steal — she is 
t’ief — ” 

“ A toi,” Aluin warned briefly. 

The dago threw up an arm to guard, 
but as well might he have set up a straw 
stack to stop a stampeded steer. Aluin’s 
blow went home, and jumping over the 
dago as he fell, Aluin ran on to the cane 
field, following the direction Valere had 
pointed out to him. 

“ If I can find her track in dere — If 
I can do like das — ” 

But Valere had no legs to run with, 
and the dago in falling struck his temple 
against one of the stakes that protected 
Madame’s flower beds, and out of the 
gash a thin red stream sprang to patter 
[ 326 ] 


The Flight 


in the dust at Valere’s feet. Valere had 
no legs to run with. But for the first 
time in his unthinking life he thought 
of death — saw human blood and smelled 
it — and the thought and sight spurred 
him to a desperate haste — to go any- 
where — to get away — to hide himself 
from that sight, and that cruel, soapy 
smell. Struggling wildly in his panic, 
he reached the gate. And the excited 
group around the fallen man took no 
notice of his going. 

For Valere there was nothing left to 
be noticed or known save the pattering 
of the thin red stream that pursued him 
like an echo, save the sickening, soapy 
smell that made the air thick with the 
thought of death. 

The sunset glow faded to gray during 
that flight; the dusk deepened; the frogs 
began to croak lonesomely in the late 
October stillness. Barefooted, hatless, 
Valere struggled on, swinging his long 
[ 327 ] 


Marie OF Arcady 

arms wildly in the desperate effort to 
hasten his stumbling steps ; looking back 
fearfully, his weazen face gleaming pale 
and set in the failing light — looking 
back, fearing to see, and always seeing 
that thin red stream spinning on his 
track. Valere’s nostrils opened and shut, 
quivering with the sickening smell of it, 
and faster and faster his frightened heart 
hammered him as he fled for safety to his 
hiding place in the swamp. 

When Valere reached his log at last 
it was to fall beside it, spent and pant- 
ing, with his face up to the night sky, 
listening, watching like a hunted beast. 

Minute by minute the night grew 
deeper. Over that far horizon where 
the pine tops fringed into the sky, bright 
eyes pried and peeped at Valere, and 
voices unheard of human ears called him, 
claimed him. Here he was at home, safe 
from all human things. The bass of the 
bullfrog, the shrill pipe of the tree toad, 
[ 328 ] 


The Flight 


the owl with its shriek and chuckle, were 
all as they had been many times before; 
but still Valere’s heart pounded; and 
still that sweat of terror rolled down his 
bony, misshapen face. Wherever he 
looked, up at the stars, out into the black 
swamp, away to the magical sky-line, 
everywhere that thin red stream was spin- 
ning through the night to patter at his 
feet ; and always the smell of it, rank and 
cruel, was in his nostrils, banishing for- 
ever the soothing fragrance of rotting 
leaves and marshy ground. Forgotten 
now was the message to M. Moise he had 
started out so proudly to deliver; for- 
gotten the pretty father who slept so 
soundly; forgotten the soft, curly hair 
that was to have been his to pet. And, 
eh bien! forgotten at last was the stream 
of spinning red, and there was left only 
the terror of his hammering heart, going 
faster and faster, till it ran up like a 
flutter in his ears and then — 

[ 329 ] 


Marie of Arcady 


And then Valere had died like the 
Dupre that he was; like the grandson 
of his second cousin; like the first cousin 
of his father. Died with only the frog 
to croak a requiem, and the owl to make 
lament! 


[ 330 ] 




CHAPTER TWENTY 

THE ANSWER 

The dago’s fall had been marked by a 
cry from Madame, a quick movement 
of the magnate and silence from M. 
Moise. 

“Arretez, Victor! Where ’tis you 
would go, maybe? ” 

Go,” uttered the magnate, half way 
to his horse with his head up, ‘‘ go! My 
God, Moise! I would go to my little 
girl das run yonder. My little Marie! 
My sister’s little girl! My — ” 

M. Moise checked impatience with a 
slow shake of the head. 

‘‘ Mais,” he said, “ I don’t know if you 
can go like das. To go to little girl das 
run yonder, das job is for Aluin. And 
voila, he have gone! ” 

[ 331 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

Aluin, clinging to the vague clew 
Valere’s pointing finger had given him, 
was not thinking of what he had left 
behind him. Running, and stooping low 
as he ran, he followed the fence until he 
came to the place where Marie had 
jumped over, and there he caught the 
trail he was seeking ; running and stoop- 
ing he followed the trail he had caught. 
Not so easy to do there in the field where 
the cane cast its shadow on the footprint 
that was sometimes but a pressure on the 
grass — but a blur in the furrow. Once 
clear of the field and out on the big 
road the trail was clearer, and Aluin 
could follow faster, seeing but one foot- 
print among the many that marked the 
sand of the slopes and the mud of the 
hollows. 

“ Pauvre petite,” Aluin said from 
time to time, his lips parting dryly over 
the words, — ‘‘ Pauvre petite.” 

In the air above him were thoughts of 
[ 332 ] 


The Answer 

the boy she had stolen — and of Valere. 
But under his eyes was the print of a 
flying foot that looked so small and lone- 
some among the many mingling tracks. 

“ Pauvre petite ! ” Running alone 

ahead there — and running so fast! 

A mile and another mile, and the light 
was failing, the night dropping down. 

“ Mon Dieu! why she don’t get tired? ” 
Aluin cried in sharp anxiety. But al- 
ways the footprint was faint in the shd- 
ing sand; and in the mud, half washed 
away by oozing water. If Aluin was 
gaining in his pursuit he could not per- 
ceive it, and the light was going out in 
long, shaky shadows that the twilight 
wind sighed over as it passed. 

“Why she don’t get tired! Little 
t’ing like das, to run so much! ” For the 
first time since he had cleared the cane 
field Aluin raised his eyes from the trail 
he followed. And with the raising of his 
eyes he saw help. Saw one of Reneau’s 
[ 333 ] 


Maeie OF Aecady 

little wood ponies, a docile little beast 
trained to come at a call and run at the 
pressure of a knee: 

“ Cheval!” Aluin shouted joyously. 

The pony came to meet him, stooping 
a knowing little head. Aluin hung over 
the pony’s withers, watching the racing 
road while his knee urged the pony to its 
best spurt of speed. 

“ C’est bien,” he said once, and ‘‘ C’est 
vrai,” he said again, and pressed his knee 
harder to the pony’s rib. For he was 
gaining now. The sand seemed to be 
but just sliding back into the footprint, 
the water had not yet oozed into that 
mark in the mud. And then there were 
no more footprints in either sand or 
mud, nor any pressure on the wayside 
grass ! 

The pony turned at a slap on its neck 
and trotted back slowly, knowing as well 
as Aluin knew that a trail had been lost 
and must be picked up again. Back and 
[334 ] 


The Answer 


forth the pony trotted, with pricked ears, 
listening, until Aluin said aloud: 

‘‘ She ’s yonder,” and slid off to follow 
his searching glance through the crowd- 
ing growth of the thicket. 

It was darker in the thicket than in the 
open, but in the gloom, dimly outlined, 
stood a figure, very slim, very small, 
planted pluckily with its back against 
a tree. 

“ Aluin,” said a panting breath. 

Aluin pressed on, until he had but to 
put forth his hand to touch her, and 
then the thoughts that had been above 
him, around him, unheeded in the hot 
pursuit, settled down upon him — closed 
him in. 

His arms swung up slowly and folded 
over his broad breast, his feet planted, 
his head settled solidly — like poetry of 
power each measured motion told its 
story, and when the question came it 
M^as well served and steady: 

[ 335 ] 


Marie or Arcady 



“Das boy you steal? You have kiss 


him? Yes?’’ 

Marie’s lowered eyes lifted with a 
flash. She might be a meurtriere but 
she was a well-brought-up ’Cajan girl, 
and not even Aluin Moise should accuse 
her of an indecorum. 

“ Non,” she said hotly, “ I never wear 
ring wit’ das boy, me.” Aluin felt his 
question answered; no correct ’Cajan 
girl would kiss a boy to whom she was 
not betrothed. But Aluin had yet an- 
other question to ask. The question 
came, but not well served and steadily, 
no ! Slinking in its tracks like a 
whipped-on thing: 

“And Valere Dupre, you have kiss 
him — maybe? ” 

Marie’s answer was a shudder and a 
cry: 

“ Oh, mais non! ” 

Aluin’s arm closed around the shud- 
dering shoulders: 

[ 336 ] 


The Answer 

“ Mais, you going kiss me, Marie? ” 

Marie drew back from his stooping 
lips. 

‘‘Non,” she declared. “I’m not 
going kiss you. I ’m not going kiss any 
boy ’t all.” 

Aluin pulled out the ring he had been 
carrying in his pocket for a month: 

“ Voila, you wear ring wit’ me, den 
you will kiss me, oui? ” he coaxed. 

“ Mais non,” Marie told him, “ I will 
not wear ring wit’ you! My hand, it is 
not clean!” 

Aluin took her hand while she denied 
him and put his ring where he wanted it 
to be: 

“ Now kiss me, Marie.” 

But Marie would not; rushing in- 
stead into a recital of the wrong-doing 
that made her a fugitive — a child of 
fear: 

“ My papa and my. mamma dey die 
when I was little like das,” she cried. 
22 [ 337 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 

“ Me, I live wit’ my aunt. She have girls 
das is more big dan me, and all time dey 
laugh — dey call me beggar. But me, I 
get Sister to teach me to sew, I t’ink 
maybe ’t is dey will quit call me beggar 
if I can make de money. So I learn fine, 
and my aunt say: ‘ Eh bien, Marie will 
sew, you will cook and wash.’ But dey 
laugh at me some more — dey call me old 
maid ! Dey say, ‘ For why you don’t 
have boy come sit on gallery wit’ you? ’ 
Dey call me pauvre vielle fille, dey sing 
at me : ‘ Sit on gallery and sew all time 
by yourself, Marie.’ And das make me 
mad. I tell dem, ‘ Ferme,’ and I say 
‘ dere ain’t boy on island won’t sit on gal- 
lery wit’ me if I wish.’ And dey laugh 
heap and say, ‘ Voila Claudis, das go to 
see de only girl das rich man got, you 
reckon he will sit on gallery wit’ you, 
maybe? ’ And I say, ‘ Oui, if I wish he 
will sit.’ And dey say, ‘ Ha, das girl’s 
papa is dago, he sell banana, he make de 
[ 338 ] 


The Answer 


money all time. He is rich man, and also 
he is old man. When he die his girl ’s 
going have all he ’s got. You t’ink Clau- 
dis ain’t know? You reckon he going 
to leave das girl for come sit wit’ you? ’ 
I tell dem, ‘ Oui, he will do.’ And ’t is 
one week he is sit on gallery wit’ me. 
I hear, me, das dago’s girl look like she 
is worry some — look like she is mad 
heap. But, me, I don’t care. My cousin 
had quit das laugh — das sing ; dey talk 
me soft — and I was proud. Den one 
night das girl’s papa he meet me in road, 
and he tell me his girl have shoot boy, and 
’t is me shall hang for das. And I was 
scare — but I run to help — I lift him 
up, and my hands,” — she held them 
towards him — “ dey was red — red, 
and me I run’ — ” 

Aluin broke in impatiently: 

“ Mais oui, m’ amie, you run to me.” 

“ Non, I don’t not run to you, I 
run to my uncle — to save my neck 
[ 339 ] 


Maeie of Aecady 


from rope. Den Felicie say to me, 
'M. Reneau is proud man,’ and I was 
scare.” 

“ Bebe,” Aluin pleaded, his lips lean- 
ing nearer. 

Marie caught a girlish breath and 
drew back: 

“ I will not kiss you. Non! Jamais, 
jamais plus!” 

Aluin’s arm closed with a more con- 
vincing clasp as he bent to look into 
her eyes. 

“ Marie,” he asked gently, ‘‘ it is das 
you don’t love me ’t all? ” 

Did not love him? How could she 
tell him that? Marie’s lips parted obe- 
diently to her will, but her tongue stayed 
still. Did not love him? Outside of this 
strong arm that guarded her, what did 
the world hold for Marie? Only the 
stars looking down lonesomely ; the night 
sound; the pitiless pursuit. Did not 
love him! 


[ 340 ] 


The Answer 


Aluin’s voice came again, — a deep 
note of joy: 

“ My love, Marie, it is for you.” 

Marie started and strained back against 
his arm. The twilight winds had fallen, 
but out of the west there came a ripple 
that touched her dry lips like cold water; 
and out of the dimness that bent above 
them Marie seemed to see a girl’s face, 
pitiful, tender, bending down to her; and 
out of the stillness she heard again the 
warm whisper, “ You can drink it all — 
dere ’s plenty.” 

“ Felicie,” she whispered back. 

"‘Bebe?” Aluin questioned, leaning 
to hear. 

Marie’s head went up in the air 
again. 

“ ’T is not for you to call me Bebe,” 
she cried clearly. “ I will not wear ring 
wit’ you. Non. ’T is only two days das 
Valere put hand on my hair.” The 
memory of that uncouth caress broke 
[ 341 ] 


Marie of Arcady 

her nerve. Marie’s voice went from her 
in a cry: 

‘‘ Oh, I did not know what he wish to 
do. He ask me somet’ing. I did not 
know what ’tis he ask me. I tell him 
* oui ’ and he put his — ” 

“ Marie,” said Aluin firmly, ‘‘ you are 
tired. For why you fight me so hard? 
I wish you quit das, Bebe. Your love 
is for me, and my love, all I have, all 
I ever going have, is for you. Now kiss 
me, cherie, and say ‘ oui ’ to me.” 

But Marie would not. Though the 
bent old man be behind her and only 
fear before, she could yet be loyal to the 
glad-eyed girl who had been good to 
her. She leaned away from Aluin and 
answered steadily. 

“ Your love is not for me,” she said. 

‘‘Den for who ’tis, Bebe?” Aluin 
asked patiently. 

Marie told him without flinching. 

“ ’T is for Felicie,” she said. 

[342 ] 


The Answer 

“Felicie!” Aluin uttered. ‘'Felicie! 
Mais, non!” Then he drew the resist- 
ing little figure close to him, took the 
-quivering face in his strong hand and 
laid it safely against his breast. 

‘‘ Bebe,” he said gravely, “ ’t is not for 
girl to say for who a man’s love is. ’T is 
not for man to say das. ’T is for God 
to say. And ’t is mos’ two mont’ le bon 
Dieu have tell me, all time, my love must 
be for His little Marie. It make me 
proud when he tell me like das, Bebe.” 
Aluin’s cheek went down to the softly 
curling hair, his voice became but a mur- 
mur among the many murmurs of that 
southern night: 

“ Ce soir you run away from me, le 
bon Dieu tell me my love it is for you.” 

“Aluin!” The stars stooped lower; 
the wind grew still. “ Aluin, ce soir! — 
He tell me too'' 


[ 343 ] 














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